


The Iron Cardinal

by dracusfyre



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Steve Rogers, BAMF Tony Stark, Blushing Steve Rogers, Cleric!Tony, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotionally Repressed Steve Rogers, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Religious Discussion, Templar!Steve, Templars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracusfyre/pseuds/dracusfyre
Summary: Steve, as a Knight of Solomon's Temple, considers himself a pious man of God. Antoine Stark, on the other hand, despite his position as the Cardinal of Paris, is the mostimpiousman Steve has ever met, to Steve's eternal irritation. But when Steve's carefully ordered life as a Templar comes crashing down and his brother in arms Bucky vanishes, he is forced to turn to Cardinal Stark for help. To his surprise, he slowly learns that there is much more to Stark than he realized; to his dismay, he also learns that the plot against the Templars is more insidious than he imagined, and that the fate of the world may lie in them finding Bucky in time.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 91
Kudos: 235
Collections: Tony Stark Bingo 2020





	1. Word of God

**Author's Note:**

> If you saw the fake trailer for "Satan's Alley" in _Tropic Thunder_ and went "Haha...unless?" then this might be the fic for you. :)

“Sir, sir!” Steve ignored the young cleric that was right on his heels as he stormed towards Cardinal Stark’s private chambers. “His Grace isn’t prepared for visitors-”

“The sun’s been up for hours,” Steve snapped. “Is he ill, that he is still abed?” He lifted his fist to bang on the door but was brought up short when it swung open before he could knock. A woman was on the other side, hair clearly hastily brushed and tied back, face still slightly flushed from exertion. Steve noticed that her blouse was improperly buttoned and jerked his eyes away, gritting his teeth as he felt his face go red. Already infuriated at being made to wait, he felt his anger irrationally tick higher.

“Er, excuse me, my lord,” the woman said, dipping a quick curtsey before edging around Steve and his escort. The cleric that served as Cardinal Stark’s assistant took advantage of Steve’s surprise to duck around him into the room.

“Sir Steve Rodgers, Knight of the Order of Solomon’s Temple, is here to see you, sir,” he rushed breathlessly right as Steve pushed him out of the way to storm into the room.

“So I gather,” Stark said dryly. He sat back in his chair, still wearing his richly embroidered dressing robe instead of his raiment and ran his fingers over the vane of the feather quill in his hand. “You may go, Brother Peter.” As the young cleric bowed and left, giving Steve a glare on his way out the door, Stark called out, “It’s probably time for you to leave as well, Jean-Paul.”

Steve stared, stunned, as a man a few years younger than himself came out of one of the doors behind Stark’s desk, looking more put together than the woman but his clothes were tellingly wrinkled. He hesitated a moment when he saw Steve and stole a glance at Stark, but when Stark just shrugged he bobbed a quick bow and left. Steve’s hands tightened into fists as his fury came back two-fold.

“What were those people doing in your private chambers?” He demanded as ‘Jean-Paul’ closed the door behind him.

“I was teaching them the word of God,” Stark said mildly.

“Do you actually expect me to believe that?” Steve had to pace away before he committed violence on church grounds, unable to look at Stark sitting there unrepentant.

“Well, they were certainly calling out His name a lot.” Steve was turned away, but he could hear the smug grin in Stark’s voice, could well imagine the way the man’s mouth would curl at the corners and his whiskey-brown eyes would grow darker. Not for the first time he wished that Grand Master Molay had made someone else the liaison with Paris’s Cardinal Stark; every time he came here Stark’s impiety seemed worse than the last.

“You are _unbelievable_ ,” Steve hissed.

“You don’t believe me?” Stark affected a look of surprise. “Why not? What do you imagine we were doing in there?” 

Steve pressed his fingers to his eyes before his traitorous brain could start imagining anything. “You know we had a meeting scheduled today,” he said tightly. He heard the bell ring for the quarter hour and said, “For fifteen minutes ago.”

“And I’m here, aren’t I? I even have all of the letters of introductions your Grand Master requested.” Steve heard papers being shuffled and tapped crisply on the desk and turned around. Despite his state of dishabille, now Stark was all business. “He also asked for some investment advice, which I wrote up for him but would be more than happy to review for you in case he has any questions.”

“Very well.” With an internal sigh, Steve sat down across from Stark, sitting so stiffly his spine didn’t even touch the back of the chair. He took the paper Stark handed him and started skimming the financial calculations written out in a cramped but elegant hand.

“Starting at the top…”

* * *

“You must have had an appointment with Sir Rodgers today,” Sister Virginia commented from the doorway shortly after Sir Rodgers had left. As always, her habit and wimple were immaculately clean and pressed, somehow still crisp even though it was already past midday. 

“Why would you say that?” Tony started shifting some paperwork to make room for her to sit for their weekly meeting.

She watched him with interest as he cleaned but didn’t offer to help. “Because after he leaves you always seemed so,” she gestured vaguely before tucking her hands back into the sleeves of her habit, “invigorated.”

Tony thought about that. “That's true,” he said thoughtfully. “For some reason when most people disapprove of me it makes me angry, but when Rodgers does it, it's just entertaining.”

“That's because you are a very contrary person,” Sister Virginia said. “It's one of the many, _many_ reasons I keep you in my prayers every day.”

“My immortal soul appreciates all your hard work,” Tony said dryly. When the space was clean, he gestured for her to sit in the chair across from his desk. 

“That's all very well and good, but I hope your fleshly coil appreciates my hard work as well,” she said as she sat. She took her messenger bag off her shoulders and started pulling out stacks of paper. “Here are all the reports you requested. You might want to take a particular look at this one,” she said as she pulled one out of the stack. 

Tony read it quickly then frowned and read it again. “These numbers are at least 8% higher than they were last month and a good 10% higher than other hospitals,” he said. “The bastard is skimming.”

“That’s what I concluded as well,” she said. “I already have a few replacements in mind if you like.”

“You are a Godsend. Today’s also the day to-“

“Distribute the funds to the orphanages?” Sister Virginia finished. “You mean, your favorite day of the month? Yes it is.” She pulled out five purses, heavy with gold, and lined them up on Tony’s desk. “This time, do try very hard not to blaspheme in front of them.”

“I was just trying to give them a leg up in life,” Tony said. “You know, swearing is a highly respected skill-”

“Tony,” Sister Virginia said repressively.

“Fine,” Tony sighed with mock frustration. “Mathematics, then.”

“Or you could teach them the Bible,” Sister Virginia suggested. “Since that is your job.”

Tony wrinkled his nose and waved a hand dismissively. “Boring. Is there anything else you need me for before I leave?”

* * *

Steve was still steaming an hour later, cutting into his food so furiously he threatened to hit the scarred wooden table under his trencher. “I don’t know why you let Stark get on your nerves so much,” Bucky said as they ate, crammed shoulder to hip with scores of laborers on their lunch break. “He’s hardly the only impious priest in Paris.”

“But he’s a _cardinal_ ,” Steve said with a frown. He struggled to put into words why Stark’s behavior bothered him so much. “Others look to him for guidance.”

Bucky snorted and rolled his eyes at that. “It’s not as if he’s public about his peccadillos. I think most of the gossip I hear about him is that he lets the wine flow a little too freely at his dinner parties and that he has half of the government in his pocket.” 

“If those were his only sins I would not be half so-“

“Sanctimonious?” Bucky suggested. “Pompous?”

“ _Frustrated,_ ” Steve said with a glare. “Pompous? Really?”

“Look, Steve,” Bucky said, wiping his eating knife on his handkerchief and putting both back in his pocket. “People aren’t perfect. We make mistakes and we sin, and God knew that. That’s why in His wisdom he told us that we may confess and repent so that one mistake won’t doom our immortal souls forever. Right?” Steve nodded reluctantly, unable to argue with his logic. “So lighten up already and get over it.”

Steve huffed. “I don’t think God meant confession to be for people to sin _on purpose_. The point is that you try _not_ to and confess when you make mistakes.”

“No, the point is that you sin in moments of weakness, then pray for God to forgive you your weakness and give you strength for next time.”

“But-“

“ _In any event,_ ” Bucky said loudly over Steve’s protests. “The point is, it is for _God_ to judge. Not you.”

Steve drained his cup of wine and set it down heavily on the wooden table, scowling at Bucky. “I hate arguing with you.”

“Because I always win?” Bucky said with a rakish grin.

“Not _always,_ ” Steve muttered, and followed Bucky out of the restaurant. Steve well remembered the meeting he’d had with the Grand Master regarding Cardinal Stark.

_"You will be the Templar Liaison with the Catholic Church in Paris,” Grand Master Molay said brusquely, straightening a stack of papers. Steve was unsurprised at the assignment; he’d known that being stationed in Paris would mean a political posting rather than the combat ones he was used to. “The person you will be working with is Cardinal Antoine Stark.”_

_“What can you tell me about him?” Steve asked._

_"He’s the first born son of Sir Howard Stark, Duke of Anjou. He has been in the church for over ten years and is arguably one of the most powerful men in Paris.”_

_“_ First _born son?” Steve repeated, surprised. Usually men of the church, if they came from noble families, were the third or fourth born sons, people safely far from the line of succession._

_"Yes. Everyone knows there’s a story there but no one knows what it is,” the Grand Master said with a shrug. “He certainly isn’t in the church because he has a passion for Christ.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“You’ll see soon enough.”_

Then he’d taken one look at the man and gotten irrationally angry at him and that feeling hadn’t really stopped since. On their walk back to the Templar Keep, Bucky must have guessed the turn of his thoughts because before they went their separate ways he said, “Let it go, Steve. Just do your job and leave the rest to God.”

“Fine,” Steve said grudgingly, trying to put Cardinal Stark from his thoughts. Back at the Tower, Steve followed Bucky back to the Grandmaster’s office to report on his meeting with Cardinal Stark. He was given new instructions then dismissed, but when he returned to his chambers he was too restless to read or meditate, so he collected his sketchbook and some charcoal pencils and went for a walk. There was a park along the Seine that had beautiful flowering trees this time of year, so Steve set his feet in that direction and tried to clear his thoughts. It worked, for the most part, until he caught a glimpse of a profile that seemed familiar crossing the street.

Frowning, he looked again; from a distance, it certainly looked like Cardinal Stark, but he was wearing a very simple cloak and robes instead of his normal richly dyed and impeccably tailored vestments. Curiosity piqued, he followed Stark around the street corner, staying half a block behind as he tried to figure out where he was going. They wound through the streets and away from the water to end up in one of the poorer but still respectable districts of Paris until Stark stopped in front of a large plain brick building. Stark knocked and wasn’t kept waiting long before a tall, lean monk answered the door, bowing respectfully as he welcomed Stark inside. Steve waited until the door closed before he went closer to investigate the plaque mounted beside the door.

“St. Mary’s Children’s Home,” he read aloud. He stared at the plaque as if it would reveal the reason why Stark was visiting but suddenly had a vision of the door opening again and Stark discovering that he’d been followed, so he turned on his heel and made his way back to the water. He found a place to sit in the grass and idly sketched the river scene, but his thoughts kept going back to Stark and the orphanage. The only thing he could imagine was that Stark had an illegitimate child that he couldn’t acknowledge because of his position in the church; the fact that the child was at an orphanage instead of with its mother hinted at some sort of scandal or tragedy. Stark must have loved the mother deeply, for him to take the time to visit the child in person and risk discovery.

With a frown, Steve’s pencil stilled as he realized that he had sketched a child sleeping on a man’s shoulder, thumb tucked into its mouth. Aggravated at his own thoughts, he colored in a goatee on the child to match Stark’s pretentious facial hair and slammed the book closed.

* * *

“Looks like I’m going to meet your Cardinal Stark,” Bucky said a few days later after matins. He held up a cream-colored piece of paper and Steve recognized the neat, sloping handwriting on it. “He’s holding a dinner and the Grand Master has charged me to go in his place as his trusted advisor.”

“He’s not _my_ Cardinal Stark,” Steve said automatically then raised his eyebrows. “Trusted advisor? Sounds like a promotion from aide de camp.”

“It’s just for the night,” Bucky said, tucking the invitation away. “He couldn’t go so I volunteered. I want to meet this guy you keep complaining about. Are you going?”

“I hardly think he’d invite the liaison to the Grand Master if he’d invited the Grand Master himself,” Steve pointed out.

“You could be my guest.” When Steve looked reluctant, Bucky took his elbow and pulled him to the side. “In all seriousness, I would like you there. You’ve been traveling in these circles more than I, and I’ll need someone to watch my back.”

Steve frowned. “I’m sure I don’t…” But then he realized what Bucky meant. A social gathering held by Cardinal Stark would likely have all the most important people of Paris there, and fortunes had been made and broken at such dinners. Bucky would have been on the fringes of such events as the Grand Master’s aide de camp, but this event would effectively thrust him into center stage. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I’ll do my best,” he said finally. “I’d rather face a hundred Saracens in battle than have dinner with a dozen nobles.”

“I don’t blame you. A Saracen will only take your life, an aristo will take everything but,” Bucky snorted. “It’s a couple of days from now so we would have time to get new clothes and go to the bath house so we don’t offend anyone’s nose with the smell of honest sweat.” Steve’s face must have done something suspicious because Bucky narrowed his eyes at him. “What?”

“I already have clothes for the dinner,” Steve said, running a hand over the back of his neck. “After our first meeting, Stark had a new tunic and surcoat sent to my rooms.”

Bucky’s raised his eyebrows for a moment and then he shook his head. “And let me guess, you shoved them under your bed and never wore them?”

“Of course I never wore them,” Steve snapped. “He only did it to get under my skin.”

“Right. Well, good thing you’re above such petty behavior,” Bucky said dryly. “Come on. If we hurry we can get in a few rounds in the training salle before I have to meet with the Grandmaster.”

* * *

“Sir Steven Rodgers and Sir James Barnes of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon,” Brother Peter announced, escorting them into a room bright with candles and drenched in the tantalizing scent of the food that was still making its way from the kitchen.

“Sir Rodgers!” Stark said with every appearance of pleased surprise. “I did not realize you were acquainted with Sir Barnes.”

Bucky bowed over Stark’s hand, brushing his lips respectfully across Stark’s ring of office. “Since we were children,” he said. “We joined the Order together and have been to hell and back. He’s like a brother to me.”

“Friendships like yours are a blessing,” Stark said with a smile. “Please, have a glass of wine while we wait for the other guests to arrive.”

Steve and Bucky bowed in thanks and moved aside to make room for other guests who were waiting to be announced. “Well, this hardly looks like a den of iniquity,” Bucky said under his breath as they took a glass of wine from the servant. Among other discrete display of Stark’s riches, the room was tastefully appointed with intricate tapestries to keep out the cold and an impressive triptych on the wall displaying scenes from the life of Christ. “As orgy rooms go, I’m fairly disappointed.”

“He doesn’t do it _here-_ ” Steve snapped, then stopped himself when he saw Bucky smothering a grin. “Funny,” he grunted, taking a sip of his wine as his eyes were drawn to Stark before he forced them away again. “So what exactly did the Grandmaster want you to accomplish at this soiree?”

“He wants to expand the church at the Castle to house some relics we brought back from Jerusalem, but he needs approval. He was hoping I could put out feelers to see how people felt about it before he approaches people more formally.”

Steve suppressed a sigh and took another sip of wine, already regretting his decision to come. More intrigues and political maneuvering; it was enough to make him wish to be back in the Holy Land.

As more people arrived, he did his best to maintain polite conversation, but he knew that if he hadn’t been there with Bucky he would have made his excuses a long time ago. At least when dinner was served Steve finally had something to do that would give him a good excuse to avoid conversation. At the head of the table, Stark was talking animatedly about something, hands gesturing expressively as he explained something to his neighbor, a Marquis who had trapped Steve into a conversation about hunting dogs that had lasted an interminable fifteen minutes before Steve had been able to escape.

“What in God’s name is that?” Steve said, staring down the table at the utensil in Stark’s hand. Bucky lifted his head from his meal and followed Steve’s gaze down the table. He made a thoughtful noise as he chewed, watching as Stark held his steak steady with the exotic, filigreed silver utensil as he cut and then used it to carry his food to his mouth. As he swallowed, Bucky looked down at his own plainer wood utensil. “It has two prongs,” he noted, looking back and forth between the two.

“I see that, but _why_?” Steve watched but couldn’t see how Stark’s two-pronged utensil was any better than everyone else’s sharpened wood or metal spears.

Stark must have caught them looking because he held up the utensil as if surprised by their curiosity, pretending to be unaware that the whole table was staring. “This is a fork,” he explained, and there were low murmurs of interest from the table. “My mother’s family is from Italy, and a distant cousin sent it to me. Isn’t it interesting?” Someone asked a question about it, drawing Stark’s attention away, and Steve rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to his food.

“A fork,” he repeated with disdain. “From _Italy._ I knew Stark wasn’t going to get through this dinner without doing something outrageous. He can’t stand not to be the center of attention.”

“I don’t know why you complain so much,” Bucky said mildly. “He’s been nothing but a gentleman all evening. You make him sound like a dissolute, pretentious wastrel.”

Steve glanced over to where Cardinal Stark was explaining something to some visiting nobleman from the Kingdom of Arles, eyes bright and smile wide. “For one, _that_ isn’t Stark,” he muttered, turning back to his food. “He’s…” he trailed off, trying to find the words. “It’s too much. He’s trying too hard.”

When he looked up, Steve saw Bucky studying him thoughtfully. When Bucky took a breath to speak, Steve braced himself, but all Bucky said was, “Well, I suppose you would know,” and then turned to speak to the man on his other side, leaving Steve to wonder what exactly he meant by that.


	2. Black Friday

"I wonder what Stark's story is," Bucky mused as they made their way home from the Cardinal's dinner party, winding through the dark and quiet streets of Paris. 

Steve grunted. "He wouldn't be the first broke son of a nobleman to make his riches in the church," he said, keeping one hand on his pommel and a wary eye on the dark alleys as they passed even though lately the Captain of the City Guard had done an admiral job suppressing robbers and thieves.

"That's just it, though. The Stark family is rich as Croesus. And unless Stark is disowned or walks away from his position, all of that money is going to the Church when his father dies." Steve frowned, and Bucky noticed the expression as they crossed a patch of bright moonlight. "Odd, right? If he's not in the Church because of a religious calling, which from your experience he definitely isn't, then what does the Church give him that being a spoiled son of a rich nobleman does not?"

After a moment, Steve shrugged. "Good question. Being able to sin as much as he wants without consequences?"

Bucky laughed at that, as he was meant to, and then they were bidding each other goodnight. But the question lingered in Steve's mind off and on for days afterwards; he had the feeling that if he could answer that one question, the rest of that infuriating man would make sense. 

* * *

“Steve!” Weeks later, Steve was suddenly jerked from sleep by the frantic banging on his door. “Steve!”

“Bucky?” He called out in confusion. He stumbled out of bed and threw open his door, surprised to see that Bucky was fully dressed. He glanced out the window but he hadn’t overslept, the sun wasn’t even up yet. “What-”

“Get dressed,” he ordered, shoving Steve back into his room. “Now, I’ll explain once we leave.”

“Leave?” Steve repeated as he reached for his surcoat and armor, throwing them over his head and fastening them with practiced hands even as Bucky’s agitation was making his heart race. “What’s happening?”

“Pack whatever you can’t bear to lose,” Bucky said instead of answering. He leaned out the door as if looking for something. “Because once we leave, I don’t know if you’ll ever be able to come back for anything.”

“Is Paris under attack?” Steve hesitated, glancing around the sparsely decorated room that had been his home for the past year. He was accustomed to traveling light, so after a moment he reached for his sketchbook, an illustrated copy of the Bible that was the only thing he owned of his father’s, and his mother’s wedding ring that he often wore on a chain under his armor. He slung his shield over his back and his sword around his waist. “I’m ready,” he said, and Bucky gestured for him to follow as they rushed through the halls of the keep towards the stables.

“Not Paris, the Templars. The entire order is under attack,” Bucky said, voice grim. “The King has turned against us, and scores of knights are being arrested all across the country.”

“What?” Steve said in disbelief, steps slowing. “Arrested? On what charges?”

“Heresy. _Hurry_ , Steve,” Bucky snapped. “I have to get you somewhere safe before the King’s men get here.”

“Me? What about you?”

“Before he was taken Grand Master Molay charged me with protecting the Temple’s relics.” As they moved deeper into the keep, Steve could see that the order was in chaos; he overheard so many insane rumors – of the Grand Master himself being arrested, of Knights being pulled off their horses by angry mobs – that his head was spinning. “I should have left immediately but I couldn’t let you get arrested. Do you have someplace safe to go?”

_Safe?_ Steve blinked and shook his head. _Here_ was supposed to be safe; he felt like he was freefalling, like the ground beneath his feet had become thin air. Besides Bucky, he didn’t even know anyone else in Paris – “Cardinal Stark,” he said without thinking.

“Good idea,” Bucky said. They were in the stables where Bucky already had horses bridled and ready. “They probably won’t think to look for you with him. Keep your head down and don’t trust anyone until I come for you, ok? We’ll let the first of the flames die down and then we’ll figure out where to go.”

Steve stopped him as he was starting to mount. “What about you? Where are you going?”

“I’m sorry, Steve, but I can’t tell you that,” Bucky said. He put a hand on the back of Steve’s neck and pulled him into a fierce hug. “If the worst happens, I can’t risk anyone knowing where I’m taking the Temple’s relics.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Steve said, holding him tight as if he could physically keep Bucky from slipping through his fingers. “You’ll need someone to watch your back-“

But Bucky was already shaking his head as he pulled away. “We will attract more attention together. I’ll find you,” he said again, setting his foot into the stirrup and climbing into the saddle. “Until then, watch your back.”

“I understand. Be safe,” he said hoarsely, stepping back as Bucky’s horse sidled under his weight. There was no one on this Earth more important to him; they had been raised together, joined the order together, went to war together, and now he was leaving Steve behind for a mysterious mission. Going, for the first time, somewhere that Steve wasn’t allowed to follow.

“You too, Steve. Don’t do anything stupid until I get back,” he ordered, and then he was gone. The sound of battle was starting to ring out on the other side of the Castle, so Steve climbed onto his own horse and turned its head towards the servant’s entrance, forcing himself to not look back as he raced to Starks’ church, his horse’s hooves clattering on the cobblestones. People were just starting to make their way out onto the streets as Steve reached the church. He led his horse to his usual box in Stark’s stable, leaving the saddle on with a murmured apology and a pat on the nose until he knew for sure that Stark would offer him sanctuary. For once, he couldn’t muster up too much disapproval at Stark’s penchant for taking lovers because the back hallways of the church were always deserted this early in the morning, the better to keep prying eyes from knowing too much about Stark’s barely secret affairs.

To his surprise, Stark opened the door almost immediately after he rapped on it urgently. “Rodgers? What in God’s name are you doing here this time of day?” To his surprise, Stark seemed alert and wide awake, as if Steve hadn’t dragged him from his bed

“I need your help,” Steve said. “I need sanctuary.”

There was a breathless moment while Stark studied him, gaze dark and puzzled, and then he opened the door and stepped back to let Steve inside. “Come in,” he said, and Steve let out a long exhale in relief. “Tell me everything.”

As Steve told his story, he realized that for the first time he was the sole focus of Stark’s not inconsiderable intellect; he was reminded of what Bucky had said the first time he’d come back from a meeting with the Cardinal complaining of his impiety. “Stark must be smarter than he lets on, though, for him to be able to reach such a high rank in the Church and then keep it,” he had pointed out, and at the time Steve had known little enough about the cutthroat politics of Paris that he didn’t put too much weight into Bucky’s words. Now, though, Steve got a sense of what Bucky meant. He’d barely finished talking when Stark had pulled out sheets of paper and started writing, pen flying over the page as he reached over to pull a cord on the wall next to his desk. It was only a few minutes before his assistant Brother Peter appeared, slightly breathless from hurrying up the stairs.

“Yes, Your Grace?” His eyes fell on Steve with confusion but he didn’t have time to comment because Stark was already giving out orders.

“This goes to Captain Rhodes,” Stark said, folding up one sheet and sealing it. “And this one to Sister Natasha. The King has apparently moved against the Knights Templar, and I am very displeased to find out that I am the last to know about it.”

“So you didn’t know?” Steve slumped forward in relief, burying his head in his hands. That had been plaguing him his whole ride; if he’d been wrong about Stark, he could have been riding right into a trap.

“Of course not, I would never have allowed it if I had known. Which is probably why they went to such great lengths to keep it from me.” Steve could hear Stark’s fingers drumming on the wood of the desk and he lifted his head.

“What do you mean?”

“The charges of heresy that your friend mentioned are patently ridiculous. I’ve never met a more uptight band of Christian men in my entire life; I think the vast majority of you might faint dead away if confronted with a true heresy.” Steve frowned at that but was unsure what to protest. “No, what this is likely about the millions of francs that the King owes the Templars that he doesn’t want to repay. The King might think he’s above the law, but he should never get pretensions that he is above his debts or, for that matter, above the Church.” Stark shuffled some of his papers together and stood, which made Steve realized that in the distance bells were starting to ring for matins. “I have business to attend to, but when Brother Peter returns tell him that you are to be given a room until this business is straightened out.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, rising as well. His words felt inadequate in the face of this disaster, nor could they truly express the relief he felt when he realized that though he was spinning like a compass without true north, Stark somehow knew exactly what to do.

“You’re welcome,” Stark said. “Now rest. Or pray, whatever. If that doesn’t work, I have some aqua vitae in the cabinet over there.” He started to shut the door to his bedroom to get dressed but paused. “And, for the present, you might want to change your clothes,” he added, not unsympathetically. “There’s enough of a risk that people might recognize you, there’s no need to walk around with a target on you.”

Steve looked down at the Templar cross on his chest and felt a bolt of terror that this might be the last time he would ever wear the crest of his Order. He looked back up at Stark and he must have seen what he felt in his eyes because he came over and put his hands on Steve’s shoulders.

“In a time of crisis, it often aids people to return to a simpler time in their lives,” Stark said carefully. “There are initiate robes downstairs, off the vestibule.”

Steve’s throat closed at the simple kindness of Stark’s words. “Thank you,” he said again, and turned on his heel to leave before he embarrassed himself further.

* * *

For two days Steve rarely left his sparsely appointed room, leaving only when necessary and even taking his meals alone. Part of it was fear of discovery, but it was more that he felt raw and sensitive, and speaking with people just seemed to add more salt to his wounds. Fear and worry had him jumping at every sound, kept him awake at night and made him pace the walls. At the end of the second day, Brother Peter knocked on his door and said that Cardinal Stark was inviting him to dinner. Steve’s first instinct was to decline, but then he realized that Stark might have new information so after a moment of hesitation he followed Brother Peter to Stark’s quarters.

“Thank you for accepting my invitation,” Stark said, standing to greet him as he entered, waving a hand towards a chair that had been set up on the other side of a heavily ladened table. “I’m glad you came.”

Steve raised his eyebrows at the amount of food on the table as he sat but didn’t comment. “Wasn’t entirely sure I had a choice,” he said, then sighed when Stark’s smile faded, unsure why he was being so surly. “I’m sorry,” he started, but Stark waved his words away.

“It’s been a trying time for you,” Stark said with a short nod, but despite Steve’s apology his originally welcoming mood had clearly cooled. When he started to serve himself Steve hesitated and followed suit, finding an appetite for the first time in days as the tantalizing smells of wine-braised chicken and fresh bread reached his nose. They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Stark took a sip of wine and cleared his throat. “I believe these are yours,” Stark said, using his foot to nudge a box tucked under the table closer to Steve. Glancing down, Steve recognized the belongings that he’d been forced to leave behind as he fled the Templar keep.

“Yes!” He said, putting down his knife so he could dig through the box, finding his books and the simple rosary he’d bought in the Holy Land. “How did you get these?”

“I went to the Captain of the King’s Guard and pointed out that if the Templars had truly been practicing heresy, then the Templar keep was unholy ground and his men were risking their immortal souls by being inside.” The corner of Stark’s mouth curled up in amusement as he cut a bite of chicken. “He, of course, knew that this whole thing was political and that the heresy thing was nonsense, but it put a stop to the looting post haste. My priests and I were able to go through the keep and gather up everyone’s personal belongings as well as some of the more, hmm, _cherished_ artifacts as we reconsecrated the fortress.”

“So instead of the soldiers looting, _you_ were looting,” Steve said with a frown.

“Perhaps, but I intend to give them back to their rightful owners,” Stark pointed out. “If they can be located, of course. I think your friend’s things are in there as well.” They were, Steve saw as he dug deeper. Steve exhaled and his shoulders slumped as he ran his thumb over the cross of Bucky’s rosary, purchased at the same time as his own right before the disastrous battle at Belen Pass.

“Have you had any word? Of what happened to the knights that were arrested?”

“They are being interrogated for the charges of heresy,” Stark said when he finished chewing. “Some have confessed.”

“Impossible,” Steve protested, and Stark made a gesture for him to settle down so he swallowed down his angry words.

“No one believes the confessions,” he said, taking a sip of wine. “Not when they are made from inside an Iron Maiden. But they are making it difficult to defend the Templars, at least publically.”

Stark’s insouciance towards the whole affair was making Steve angry. “We should do something,” he said, pushing his plate away, the food on it mostly uneaten. 

“Like what, Rodgers?” Stark asked, setting down his utensils. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “What would you do? To what end? If you ride in to rescue them, all you will be doing is joining them.”

Steve scowled at the rebuke. “What would you have me do instead? Stay here, in the lap of luxury, while my brothers are being tortured, while my entire order is being dismantled and scattered to the far ends of the Earth?”

“Sometimes, Rodgers, you must accept your helplessness against the cold hand of fate,” Stark said, voice short. “Good does not always, or even often, win.”

“Is that why you do what you do? Are you fiddling while Rome burns?” Steve shoved his chair away from the table and stood, gesturing to Stark’s opulent apartment. “Here, with your wine and your fine linen sheets and the bed with an ever-rotating rondel of people in it?”

“You seem terribly concerned with what happens in my bed, Rodgers,” Stark said silkily. His dark eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Why is that?”

Stark’s words knocked Steve off balance. “Because…” He started, his eyes involuntarily moving to the closed door of Stark’s bedroom. “Because you took an oath,” he managed. “An oath of chastity.”

“Yes, well, the king took an oath to protect and serve the people of France, people make oaths of fidelity to their spouses, and I’m sure the rutting dog makes some sort of oath to his bitch _du jour_ ,” Stark said. “They are but words, as insubstantial as air and just as meaningful.” Steve was stunned by the vicious bitterness in Stark’s words, and it made his frustrated anger gutter out like a candle. He sat back down heavily in his chair and stared across the table at Stark, whose hands were white knuckled on his knife and fork as he cut into his food with unnecessary brutality.

“No,” Steve said finally. “Oaths aren’t meaningless. Like faith, and hope, and love, they have as much meaning as you give them.”

Stark’s hands stilled, and as he looked up Steve could tell that he had some cutting remark planned, but the words seemed to die on Stark’s tongue when he met Steve’s eyes. Steve felt naked under Stark’s thoughtful gaze, but he lifted his chin and refused to look away. “And what if the person you gave your oath to is faithless and untrue? Does that relieve you of your vow?” Stark said after a long moment. “What if Grand Master Molay and other leaders of your Temple were in fact practicing heresy?”

“I don’t know.” Steve had to look away because the question stabbed right to the heart of his pain. What will he do, where will he go, when the life that he’d made was crumbling before his eyes? Was he still a Templar when the order no longer existed? Were he and his brothers being tested, like Job? The more he tried to pray for answers, the farther and farther he felt from God.

The rest of dinner was spent in oppressive silence, until Steve bid Stark good evening and spent the rest of the night sleepless in his room.


	3. Hide and Seek

After the disastrous dinner, Steve started avoiding Stark; judging from the lack of invitations to share meals, Stark was more than happy to let him. Then one day Brother Peter showed up at his door and gestured for Steve to follow him to the stables, where he handed Steve a shovel. From that day forward, dressed in his simple novitiate robes, Steve fell into a routine of work and prayer that kept his mind too busy and body too tired to dwell on his problems; the one time he summoned the nerve to ask about it, Brother Peter said that Cardinal Stark was working on it and would keep Steve informed as he saw fit, which Steve took as a rebuke and a suggestion to not ask again. So he scrubbed dishes in the kitchen, stacked firewood, shoveled coal, tended to the sick and performed whatever other chores they found for him to do quickly and without protest, hoping all the while that he’d be too tired at the end of the day for the nightmares to come.

One day, though, it was raining heavily, too heavily to work outside, and Steve was left alone with his thoughts. He tried to read a philosophical text from the church library, but it couldn’t hold his interest; for some reason the sound of the drumming rain was making him restless rather than soothing him. He paced around the church like a nervous cat until he saw that the monks were starting to give him funny looks every time he passed by, so he forced himself to sit and repeated the Lord’s Prayer until the words jumbled together in his head and became a nonsensical string of gibberish. Eventually, with a sigh, he started to stand, planning to do exercises in his room until the restlessness eased, until he was brought up short by a hand on his arm. 

Sometime in the past hour a man had come to sit next to him and Steve had never even noticed; the man was short and stocky, hair and beard short and well-groomed. “Uh,” the man said nervously when he saw Steve’s on him. “Someone said to come here if I needed help.”

Steve looked at him in confusion. “What-“

“Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed Nomini tuo da gloriam,” the man said in a low voice, making the sign of the cross.

“Nomini tuo da gloriam.” Steve repeated the final words to the Templar oath automatically, studying the man with renewed interest. He glanced around to see if they were being watched and moved a little closer, because the only person who knew he was here that wasn’t Stark or Brother Peter was Bucky. He bowed his head as if praying and gestured for the man to do the same. “Who was sent you here? Was it a man named James?”

“He didn’t say his name,” the man whispered back. “He just said, ‘go to Notre Dame, find the big blonde guy with shoulders for miles and tell him ‘don’t do anything stupid until I get back’.’”

Steve’s throat closed and he let out a shuddering breath. That was Bucky, alright. He started to chide the man for taking the risk of coming up to a stranger with so little description to guide him, but when he looked around he realized sheepishly that he was easily the largest man in the cathedral and that he was also the only man with yellow hair. “Right,” he said. “Come with me.” They stayed there for a few more moments, during which Steve sent up a quick prayer for guidance, then he led the man to his room. “Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll return shortly.”

He wove his way through the winding halls of the Cathedral until he found Brother Peter at his desk, tongue between his teeth as he painstakingly practiced his calligraphy. “Is Cardinal Stark available?” Steve asked. “Or does he have…guests?”

“I’ll inquire,” Brother Peter said, drying his pen and setting it to the side. After a few moments he returned and gestured for Steve to go upstairs. 

“Come in,” Stark called when Sir Rodgers knocked. “What do you need at this hour of morning?”

Despite everything, that brought Steve up short. "It's past noon," he said with a frown, and Stark looked surprised. “Are you really just now- never mind. There is a Templar downstairs that needs our help,” Steve said urgently. “He needs sanctuary or – or help fleeing Paris…” His words faltered to a stop when he saw the incredulous anger on Stark’s face. “What?”

“Have you always been this naïve?” Stark said sharply. “Or has the past few week of idleness rotted your brain?”

“What are you talking about? This man needs help-“

“That man is probably a _trap_ ,” Stark snapped. “And you revealed yourself to him like a _fool,_ and now you _and_ I could be compromised.” As Steve stared at him, stunned, Stark exhaled and ran a hand over his face. “This is my fault. I’ve been trying to protect you from the lies and the intrigue and now you may have doomed us all.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Steve demanded.

“One moment and I’ll explain.” As he walked by Steve to ring the bell for Brother Peter, Stark shoved Steve down into a chair with surprising strength. “Stay.” Outside the door, Steve heard Stark give Brother Peter instructions to have Sister Natasha keep an eye on the man in Steve’s room and try to get as much information as she could without giving anything away.

“Who is Sister Natasha?” Steve asked, recognizing the name, as Stark returned and sat down across the desk.

“Not important right now,” Stark said shortly. “Look. The king is looking for the relics and the wealth that your friend spirited away from the Templar Keep and, thanks to the confessions of the knights already in his dungeons, knows that your friend is the only one who knows where it is.”

“But Bucky is the one who sent this guy-”

“Can you be sure of that? Absolutely sure?” Stark said. “Willing to stake your life on it? _My_ life? Brother Peter’s?”

“I don’t understand what this one man has to do with Bucky and the treasure,” Steve protested. “He told me something only Bucky would know, doesn’t that mean-“

“That could mean _anything._ Sure, it could mean that your old pal Bucky ran across this poor Templar fleeing for his life and sent him to you to help. If your friend is an _idiot._ ”

“Now wait just a minute-“

“Rodgers.” Stark slammed his hands on his desk impatiently, making Steve jump. “ _Think._ You said yourself that Bucky sent you here to keep you safe, to hide you, right?” Steve nodded reluctantly. “Then why would he send another knight, a complete stranger, to you and potentially draw attention to you, to risk your cover like that? Here? In the center of the worst of the persecution?” Steve had no answer to that, so Stark continued, ticking off his points on his fingers as he made them. “As I was saying, King Phillip is looking for the Templar treasure, which means he’s looking for your friend. He knows that you and Bucky were particularly close, so now he’s looking for you. He knows that you and I knew each other, and I’ve already been questioned about you multiple times – what you might know, who you might know, where you could have gone. Is any of this drawing a picture for you?”

“Dear God,” Steve whispered, feeling sick to his stomach as he realized how foolish he’d been. “If the King sent him here to look for me…”

“You still carry yourself like a knight, Rodgers,” Stark said, voice gentling. “You are known to the people of this church, to this neighborhood. Their loyalty to me has been keeping you safe.”

“Until now.”

“Until now,” Stark echoed. “You’re just one fugitive Templar Knight, and normally Phillip could be convinced to look the other way, but…”

“They want to use me to get to Bucky,” Steve finished. Stark just spread his hands at that, looking tired as he stood and went to his liquor cabinet. “So what happens now?”

“Well, we will give Sister Natasha some time to interrogate your new friend, and she’ll give me her suggestions, which I will imagine be to drug him into insensibility and spirit him out of the kingdom.” Stark turned and held up a bottle of wine, looking at Steve in inquiry. When Steve nodded he poured Steve a glass as well. “On the next ship to Africa, perhaps. Neatly solves the problem, whether he is truly a Templar or not.” He handed Steve the glass and sat back down. “What to do with you, however, is another story.”

Steve felt a stab of fear around the squirmy feeling of shame in his chest. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t look at me like that, Rodgers,” Stark said. “I’m not going to abandon you to the wolves. I just mean that you aren’t safe here anymore.” He took a pensive drink of wine, eyes far away. “I guess we could always put you on a ship to Africa as well,” he mused.

“What about you?” Steve said. “If they suspect you are hiding me, and suddenly I vanish, won’t you be in trouble as well?” Stark stared at him as if that hadn’t occurred to him, then he started swearing so profusely that even Steve, a battle-tested warrior, felt his ears burning. “I’m sorry,” he said inadequately as he realized the scope of the problems he’d made for Stark by just being here, not to mention this latest act of foolishness.

Stark rubbed his fingers over his eyes. “I’ll figure this out,” he said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself as much as Steve. “For now, just go back to your room. I would suggest you gather your things in case you have to leave quickly.”

Steve drained his cup of wine and stood. “The only good news is that if they are trying this hard to get to me, that means they don’t have Bucky. He’s still safe.” When Stark was suspiciously quiet, he turned and his stomach dropped at the look on Stark’s face. 

“They might want to use you as a way to find your friend,” Stark said reluctantly, “or they might want to use you as a way to make him talk.”

***

After Rodgers had went back to his room, face drawn and pale, Tony went in search of Sister Natasha, eventually finding her in a corner of the nave conspiring with Sister Virginia, their heads bent together as they whispered.

“Well?” Tony asked under his breath as he approached. “What’s the verdict?”

“He’s certainly a Templar,” Sister Natasha said, “but he is sticking to his story with an admirable tenacity. Too much so, if you ask me, like he’d been prepared for questioning.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Tony rubbed his eyes. “What now?”

“Well, he’s going to be asleep for at least ten hours. I recommend putting him on a ship at Calais.”

“What about Steve?”

“Send him south,” Natasha said without hesitation, echoing Tony’s thoughts. “Though he should have been gone weeks ago, when he first got here.”

“You have a number of estates he could go to,” Sister Virginia suggested. “Or any number of monasteries, or-“

“I know, I know.” Tony sighed. When Steve had first come to him, Tony hadn’t realized that King Phillip’s pronouncement against the Templars had been the opening skirmish in a war to exterminate the order instead of just another power play in the endless game of money and influence played by the Church, the nobles, and the king. By the time he’d realized the true extent of the King’s plans, the noose around Paris had already tightened.

“You know, it’s not a bad idea for you to get out of town for a while, too,” Sister Natasha pointed out. “You could go south as well.”

“You think I should go with him? For the love of God, why?” Tony pressed his fingers to his temples. His conversation with Rodgers had left him with a headache and a heavy heart, but his sympathy for Rodger’s pain wouldn’t last long if he started in with his moralizing when Tony wasn’t in the mood.

“Clearly he needs someone to keep him out of trouble,” Sister Natasha said. “If he says something to the wrong person this will all be for naught.”

“Go tour your estates and have him masquerade as your coachman,” Sister Virginia suggested. Both Tony and Sister Natasha had to smother a laugh at the thought of Rodgers, with unmistakable military bearing and his shoulders that could barely fit up the narrow, winding staircases of the cathedral, acting as a lowly coachman. “Or a driver, what have you,” Sister Virgina said, rolling her eyes at their stifled hilarity. “You know what I mean.”

“It would probably be best if we told everyone that he was touring his estates but then they both travel in disguise,” Sister Natasha said, clearing her throat as their inappropriate giggling fit had died away. “Between Captain Rhodes, Sister Virginia, and me, we should be able to keep your little empire running in your absence.”

“Noooo,” Tony mourned softly, banging his head gently against Sister Virginia’s shoulder as she patted him gently on the back. “I don’t want to go.”

“It’ll be fine,” Sister Natasha said without sympathy. “Look at it this way – maybe you’ll get to see him naked.” And it was a measure of how upset Tony was that even the prospect of that couldn’t cheer him up.

***

Early the next morning, as the city was just starting to stir, Brother Peter knocked on Steve’s door and handed him a monk’s hooded robes to change into, then led him through the church to where a wagon was waiting outside. There was a man already sitting behind the sleepy draft horse and the bed of the wagon was filled with chests, presumably themselves full of goods to be sold outside the city. Steve started to climb into the seat beside the driver, but the driver shook his head and jumped down. He fidgeted with something on the side of the wagon, and then a panel fell away, revealing a secret compartment below the driver’s seat.

“Seriously?” Steve hissed to Brother Peter. The compartment looked like he would barely fit inside.

“They are looking for Templars at the gates,” Brother Peter said, sounding apologetic. “Stark will contact you later. For now, you can trust Thomas, he will get you outside of the city safely.”

Without any further protest Steve climbed into the secret compartment, wedging his shoulders in the tiny space as best he could. Thomas replaced the panel and then Steve heard and felt him climb back into the wagon. With a rattle of the reins, the wagon jerked into motion, rattling over cobblestones and moving in fits and starts as Thomas navigated Parisian traffic. He tensed when he heard guards order the wagon to halt and searched the back, but Thomas must have been an experienced smuggler because he seemed unfazed, trading gossip and commiserating with the guards as he waited for permission to leave the city walls. Then he had to stay in the wagon for what felt like an interminable period after they left the noise of the city before the wagon pulled to the side of the road and the panel fell away again. Thomas helped Steve climb out, waiting patiently for him to stretch out and massage life back into his cramping limbs.

When he was ready, Steve climbed back into the wagon, this time sitting next to Thomas on the seat. “You work for Stark?” Steve asked as the horse pulled the wagon back onto the rutted dirt road. He’d spent the hours hiding in the wagon plagued with questions: Where was Stark sending him? Was Stark going to be safe if he stayed behind? What happened to the other Templar? And how exactly did a man of the church know how to smuggle a man out of Paris on such short notice?

“You mean the Iron Cardinal?” Thomas asked. “Yeah. For a few years now.”

 _Iron Cardinal._ The more Steve learned about Stark, the more it seemed there was to discover. “And how did that happen, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I tried to rob him,” Thomas said shortly. Clearly he was not a man of many words, Steve reflected, but his curiosity was too strong for him to take the hint and let him drive the wagon in peace.

“You tried to rob him and he gave you a job?” He pressed. That didn’t seem like the kind of thing that really happened to people, but honestly, he could see Stark doing something like that.

Thomas shrugged. “Yep.”

“Is your job always smuggling people?”

“No.” Well that was…better, Steve reflected. It was surely better that Stark had regular employees that he occasionally asked to commit crimes instead of him secretly running a vast criminal enterprise out of a _church_. “Sometimes it’s spices or contraband from England,” Thomas added, and Steve sighed.

The rode for a good part of the day before the wagon stopped in front of a modest monastery, where Steve could see men in coarse brown robes were tending a thriving garden. After a moment he realized that their robes were a match for his, and he realized this was his stop. At Thomas’s eloquent head nod towards the simple brick building set off the road a ways, Steve gathered his few belongings and climbed down off the wagon.

Thomas fished a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and passed it down to Steve. Steve turned it over in his hands, recognizing Stark’s seal in the embossed wax holding the paper closed. “The Iron Cardinal wants you to give that to the Abbot,” Thomas explained, snapping the reins and clucking to his horse.

“What am I supposed to do here?” Steve said as the wagon pulled away.

“You wait for further instructions,” Thomas called back. 


	4. Brother Eduard

“Brother Grant!” Steve wiped an arm over his brow and lowered the axe as Brother Thibault waved to him from across the field. “It’s time for dinner. We have a special visitor, if you wish to wash up.”

Steve eyed the work he’d done and the amount he had left to do, and decided he was at a good stopping point for the day. Since he’d gotten here a week ago, they’d put him to work clearing a field in order to expand their garden; he was almost done chopping the trees down and turning them into firewood for the monastery, and next he’d start digging up the roots and collecting rocks so they could till the dirt for the crops. “I’m coming,” he said, tucking the ax into the rope belt that gathered his robe at his waist and pulling off the tough leather gloves. “Who’s our guest?” he asked as he followed Brother Thibault back to the monastery.

“Brother Lucien introduced him as Brother Eduard,” Brother Thibault answered as Steve splashed water on his face and hair, rinsing away the sweat. Now that he had stopped working, his stomach was rumbling, making him glad that it was time to eat. Dinner here was always a simple affair, usually roast vegetables from the garden and hearty brown bread flavored with honey from the hives. After a hard day’s labor, Steve was always hungry enough that he scarcely missed the sophisticated variety of dishes he’d dined on in Paris.

“Hello, Brother Grant,” Brother Lucien said cheerfully as Steve sat down at the table, gratefully loading his plate with the roasted potatoes and buttered onions that were being passed around. “This is Brother Eduard.”

Steve almost dropped the bowl of potatoes when Stark’s smiling eyes met his across the table. “Well met, Brother Eduard,” Steve managed around his surprise. Not only was Stark not wearing his crimson robes of office, but he had also cut his hair, eschewing the longer curls favored by the court for a simpler, shorter style. Seeing Stark wearing the plain brown robes of a simple monk did something strange to Steve; his stomach turned over, his heart thumped painfully in his chest and he felt ill at ease, almost nervous. So instead of participating in the lively conversation he kept his head down and focused on his food, trying to figure out why a change of clothes seemed to make such a difference.

He didn’t realize he was frowning until Brother Thibault leaned over and said, “Are you feeling well, Brother Grant?”

“I’m fine,” Steve assured him. “Just tired.” During dinner, Stark made no indication that he knew Steve or had any particular business with him, so Steve assumed that he would find out the reason for Stark’s visit later, after everyone had said evening prayers and gone to bed.

Sure enough, after the monastery had gone quiet and still, when the light of the full moon was drawing squares of silver on the floor and crickets and frogs were singing their nightly chorus, there was a gentle rap on Steve’s door. As Steve stood to open it, he realized his heart was racing and his palms were sweaty; over the past few hours, Steve had realized that the difference was that now Stark seemed approachable in a way he had not before, almost like he was a completely different person. In his richly furnished rooms with his cardinal’s robes and the small army of people at his beck and call, he’d seemed out of Steve’s reach. Now, however, he was just another fellow monk as he stepped into Steve’s cell with one small candle to light his way. 

“Isn’t this place cozy,” he said as he glanced around Steve’s cell, making Steve smile faintly. “How’ve you been?”

Steve shrugged. “Busy, I guess.”

There were no chairs in the room but the table was low enough to be used by someone sitting on the floor, so Stark sat on it and put the candle behind him so the light wouldn’t show under the door. “No unusual visitors?”

“Not until you.” Steve sat down on his straw mattress and leaned his back against the wall, trying not to stare at how the candle highlighted Stark’s strong jaw and made mysterious shadows of his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“You and I are moving on to the next safe house,” Stark said. “This place is good for a short stay, but it is still too close to Paris. I was thinking of going to the coast, maybe down south.”

“Have you heard anything about Bucky?”

“Nothing certain yet,” Stark said. “A few sightings, but he’s always moved on by the time my people get there.”

“I want to help find him,” Steve suddenly, not even realizing what he was going to say until the words came out of his mouth. Stark stilled, and even in the dim light of the candle and the moon Steve could see the look of disbelief on his face. “I'm not going to let you keep shuffling me around the country until I know what’s happened to him.”

“You can’t be serious,” Stark said flatly.

“I am.” Concern for Bucky had been in the back of his mind since the incident with the Templar in Stark’s church, but now that he’d put the feeling into words he knew that’s what he was going to do, with or without Stark. 

“And just how do you propose to do that?”

“I…” Steve hadn’t gotten that far. “I don’t know yet.”

“And what will you do if you find him?”

“I don’t know.”

“What if he’s being held by the King? Or by the Church?”

“Then I’ll rescue him,” Steve said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or die trying.”

Stark stood and started to pace around the tiny cell. “Well, I can see that you’ve certainly thought this out,” he said sarcastically. “Must be that keen military mind of yours to come up with such a thrilling strategy.”

“Look, I know this is just a game to you, but this is _everything_ to me,” Steve said, getting to his feet. “Bucky has been my friend since we were children, and if he’s in trouble, I am going to help him, no matter what it takes. Is there anyone in _your_ life you would do that for, or are you too self-centered to care that much for someone else?”

Steve didn’t get a good glimpse of the look on Stark’s face before he looked away. “Friend, huh? Just a friend, or a _friend_ friend?”

As soon as Steve realized what Tony was asking he felt his face get red and was glad that it was too dark to see. “Just a friend,” he said stiffly. “He’s not – I mean –“

“Don’t get all worked up about it,” Stark said, waving a hand dismissively. “I was just wondering.” Steve gratefully fell silent, trying to smother the guilty memories of dreams he’d had about Bucky when he was younger. “And it’s not a game,” Stark added. “Or rather, it _is_ a game, but with consequences far more dire than you know.”

“You’ve already explained that,” Steve said impatiently. “I know that if the church finds me-“

“No, Steve, this is bigger than that, bigger than your life or even mine.” He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face, clearly gathering his thoughts. “Look, it would not be overstating things to say that the fate of all Christendom lies on your friend keeping those artifacts out of the King’s hands.”

Steve was silent for a while, trying to understand how that could be true. “How?” he finally asked. “What could the King do with them that is so dire?”

“I cannot speak for the Muslims, of course, or the empires of the Orient, but much of our history has been a struggle between monarchs, who believe their power should only be checked by God himself, and the Church, which believes that their authority over matters divine should extend to earthly matters as well. Whenever one gets too strong, the result is almost always war. Lately, the Church has been ascendant and in its infinite wisdom,” Stark’s sarcasm was particularly heavy here, “it decided to embark on the Crusades.” Steve couldn’t even find it in himself to protest Stark’s opinion of the Crusades; during his time in the Holy Land, he’d found little Christian in the behavior of the Crusaders towards the native people. “Normally, we would have a period of peaceful balance, but King Phillip is trying to put the Church under his thumb. Without a strong Pope to keep him and the other monarchs in check, he will cast greedy eyes upon his neighbors. And having the artifacts under his control would only increase his power.”

“Because of the power of the artifacts?” Steve asked with confusion. Among the artifacts was a sliver of the True Cross, some of Saint Peters’ bones, the Holy Spear, and a cup that was allegedly the grail that Jesus drank from at the Last Supper; it was rumored that these artifacts had miraculous powers, which was why the Templars always kept them under lock and key, lest they fall into the wrong hands.

“Because of the power of _belief,_ ” Stark said. “Inanimate objects can’t be imbued with power, that is just superstition,” he added, and Steve was again grateful to the dark so Stark couldn’t see his chagrin. “But people will do a lot for someone they believe in. If the king can use these artifacts to rally the people behind him, then there will be no stopping him and his ambitions.”

“Why do you care?” Steve said before he could stop himself. “You wouldn’t be the first person to enrich themselves in war.”

The quality of the silence changed, and Steve could tell that he had offended him. The silence went on for so long that Steve started to apologize, but Stark stood suddenly before he could speak, making the candle flame dance. “I’ve spent too long ministering to the poor, the sick, and the injured, to not care how their lives will be affected by war,” he said bitingly as he moved towards the door.

“Stark, I’m sorry,” Steve said, catching his sleeve before he opened the door. “That was uncalled for. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I have repaid you with churlishness.”

Stark didn’t turn, but he did tilt his head in acknowledgement of Steve’s apology. “If you are insisting on this mad quest to find your friend, we will leave the day after tomorrow,” he said. “I have arrangements to make.”

When Stark was gone, leaving his candle behind, Steve sighed and knelt down on the packed dirt floor to pray for wisdom; maybe God would reveal to him why he could be civil around everyone else but was always an ass around Stark. “And please protect Bucky and keep him from danger,” he added. “If You could find it in Your wisdom to give me a hint as to where he is, that would be great too.”

True to Stark’s word, two days later they were climbing onto a wagon filled with barrels of mead and a single chest for their personal items; as Steve eyed it, he knew his own meager belongings would barely line the bottom, and he wondered what in God’s name Stark could have brought to make the chest so heavy. To Steve’s surprise, Tony brought his sword and shield, though the Templar cross had been painted over with the mark of the King’s guard. He found the weapons tucked away under the driver’s seat, hidden in the same kind of compartment that had smuggled Steve out of Paris. With them was another half-sword and short dagger; when Steve had asked about them, Stark had quirked an eyebrow and said, “I wasn’t always in the Church, Rodgers.” Steve spent the first few miles of their trip trying to imagine Stark training with weapons and eventually gave up; even now that he was away from his fancy clothes and opulent quarters, Stark’s hands seemed too elegant for weapons, not like Steve’s own scarred and calloused fingers and palms. His eyes were drawn to Stark’s hands on the reins, gentle and confident, and went queasy at the thought of them covered in blood.

“Tell me about your friend,” Stark said unexpectedly, breaking Steve’s train of thought. “Put yourself in his shoes, where do you think he would go?”

Steve thought about that for a while, and finally said, “The chapter in Castile is strong and enjoys the support of their Queen. He and the relics would be safe there.”

“Uh…" 

When Steve glanced over and saw the look on Stark’s face, his stomach dropped. “What?”

“The Pope issued a papal bull calling for all European monarchs to arrest Templars in their kingdoms and seize their assets,” Stark said, sounding apologetic. “If that’s where he went, he’s not safe.” Steve cursed and put his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees as he fought his temper. He wasted _days_ at that monastery, digging holes and chopping trees, waiting like a wife whose husband had gone to war while Bucky's being hunted at every turn. _Trust me_ , Stark had said. _I'll take care of it._ And since then Stark has been doing what, exactly?

Steve realized that his jaw was hurting because he was grinding his teeth so hard in an effort to not shout, and that his hands had curled into fists. He took a deep breath and sat up straight, forcing his eyes to stay on the road because if he looked at Stark’s face he might lose his thin grip on his self-control.

“Did you hear me?”

“What,” he ground out, still looking straight ahead.

“We know your friend went south and west when he left Paris, but he never showed up at Castile,” Stark repeated. “I’m hoping he found a safe place to hole up and wait out the storm. Did he mention anywhere else he could have gone?"

With effort, Steve forced his thoughts away from the ball of rage in his chest and tried to think. “He has an uncle with a farm outside of Chatellerault,” he said. “I think that’s where his family is from.”

“Chatellerault,” Stark repeated thoughtfully. “Good swords come from there, I took a tour of their blacksmith shops a few years ago. I know the Vicomte, too, he's an old family friend.” He looked down at his robes ruefully and passed a hand through his shorn hair. “I don’t think I’ll be calling on him this time, though. But that’s a good place to start, I think a former knight would blend in well in that town.”

Steve felt the knot in his chest start to ease at the prospect of having a place to start looking, and he rolled his neck and shoulders, which had gone tight with his sudden anger. He had to sit on his hands to keep from tearing the reins from Tony’s hands to urge the horse to move faster than the slow walk they were traveling at now. “Speaking of blacksmithing,” he said after a while, “Why are you called the Iron Cardinal?” He'd been wondering that ever since Stark's letter had gotten him entrance into the monastery, all smiles with no questions asked, not even who Steve was or where he came from. The lack of an immediate response made him look over, and to his surprise, he saw that Stark’s cheeks were ruddy. 

“I, uh,” Stark cleared his throat. “I didn’t give myself that name, you know. It’s kind of silly, I guess, but people…I think it was Sister Natasha’s idea, and she listens to _way_ too many ballads…” He fumbled to a stop, and when he realized Steve was staring his face flushed even brighter. “It’s just a nickname,” he added defensively. “Where did you hear that, anyway?”

“Thomas.”

“Right, right. But, uh, nowhere else?”

Steve raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes at Stark, trying not to smile at the man’s discomfiture. “Where else could I possibly have heard it?”

“Nowhere, I was just…curious.”

“Right,” Steve said skeptically. “But what does it mean?”

“Nothing, it’s just a nickname,” Stark repeated.

"Just a nickname? So it's not a code name for the leader of an elaborate criminal network of smugglers like Thomas?" Tony just shrugged, mouth in a tight line. Steve watched him for a few long minutes then finally looked away because Stark seemed determined to keep his attention on the road rather than elaborate further. “So who is Sister Natasha? You’ve mentioned her before, but I don’t believe I’ve ever met her.”

“You’ve met her, though you might not have known it at the time," Tony said. "She’s my…assistant.”

“I thought Brother Peter was your assistant?”

“He’s my aide. It’s different.”

Steve made another skeptical noise. “Is she your assistant, or your _assistant_ assistant?” The words came out a little sharper than he intended, but Stark only laughed.

“You should ask that again, but in front of Natasha,” he said, flicking the reins and clicking his tongue at the draft horse pulling the wagon, who flicked its ears backwards and started stepping a little livelier. “I’ll be sure to be standing a few feet away, just in case.” He gave Steve a wry glance. “It may be hard to believe, but I haven’t actually slept with every person in Paris.”

“Only the attractive ones,” Steve said, and was rewarded with a bark of laughter.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Stark said teasingly, brown eyes twinkling with such good humor that Steve huffed out a laugh as well. 

"I can't imagine how long it takes you to sit at confession." 

"Well, one of the benefits of being a clergyman is that I get to skip straight to the forgiveness part. It's very efficient."

Steve shook his head in disapproval and looked away so Stark couldn't see his reluctant smile. The amiable mood lasted for rest of the day, with Stark greeting and making conversation with almost everyone they met on the road as they traded the responsibility for driving. They never passed through a town big enough to have an inn, however, so when the sun was getting low in the sky Steve pulled them off at a grassy clearing next to the road. Steve gathered wood for a fire while Stark unhitched the horse from the wagon, putting it on a lead so it could graze. When Steve returned, setting down an armful of branches, he saw Stark pull out a pair of small pillows and blankets from the trunk in the back of the wagon. To Steve's surprise, Stark tossed one of the pillows to him.

“Couldn’t completely give up your creature comforts, eh, Stark?” Steve examined the pillow, which was made of sturdy burlap on one side and cloth on the other, before handing it back. “No thank you.”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “First, for the love of God please stop calling me Stark. If nothing else, call me Tony, though you should get in the habit of referring to me as Brother Eduard so long as we are on this ill-considered mission. Second, virtuousness isn’t measured by misery, Rodgers. God doesn’t care if you sleep in comfort.”

“If I’m to call you Tony, then I suppose you should call me Steve.” The invitation to call Stark _Tony_ made a ball of warmth appear in Steve’s chest, one that he didn’t want to examine too closely so he busied himself by pulling up the sod to make a makeshift firepit. “Also, I’m pretty sure that’s the point of asceticism,” Steve said dryly, stamping down the damp dirt. "To deny yourself material things to get closer to God."

Tony made a rude noise at that and packed the pillow back in the trunk. “If your faith in God can be compromised by the presence of a pillow, I don’t think the pillow is the problem. But fine, I can find you a rock and some gravel to sleep on for the good of your soul.”

A moment too late, Steve realized that the pillow had actually been a gesture of thoughtfulness and he felt like an ass. Again. “The pillow is too soft,” he explained, busying himself with the flint to start the fire so he didn’t have to look at Tony. “I can’t sleep if the pillow or bed is too soft.” Tony made a soft “ah” of understanding and then Steve heard him put the pillow away and start rummaging through their stores of food. After a moment, though, Steve couldn’t help but add, “But you _are_ going to hell for using a pillow,” and laughed when he felt said pillow hit him in the back of the head.

After eating, they banked the fire and laid down, Tony on his pillow and Steve on the soft grass with his blanket below him. “The stars are bright tonight,” Tony commented, and Steve opened his eyes to see that he was right; the moon was a thin sliver low in the sky, making the stars seem brighter by comparison.

“They are,” Steve agreed. “Bucky and I stared at the stars many a night out in the deserts near Jerusalem. I’ve never seen a sky so clear as that in the Holy Land.”

“Perhaps that’s why they study the stars so much,” Tony said musingly. “You know, the Muslims come up with some very interesting tables about how to predict the movements of the stars through the sky, and how to use them to navigate. I imagine it will revolutionize map-making and navigation.”

“Huh," Steve said eloquently. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a stargazer.”

“When I was younger, I wanted to be a scientist. I even went to the university in Paris for a short while before I joined the church.” There was an odd note in Tony’s voice, and when Steve looked over, he saw Tony shake his head once, sharply, as if trying to dismiss his thoughts, before he turned his head to see Steve looking at him. “What about you? Did you always want to be a Templar?”

“I was going to be an artist,” Steve confessed. “I was training with a monk to be an illuminator, but then…” He gestured vaguely at his body. “Over the space of a year, I went from a weedy runt to being stronger than the blacksmith.”

“So what happened to being an artist?”

Steve shrugged. “Bucky was training to be a knight, and my mentor suggested perhaps that God had given me this body for a reason. So I asked to be trained as well and then we both decided to join the Templars.” Speaking of Bucky suddenly reminded him of why he was out here sleeping under the stars rather than in his bed at the Temple and his mood plummeted. “What about you?” he asked, trying to take his mind off his worry for Bucky. “Why did you decide to join the Church?”

"Oh, that's a story for another day," Tony said, voice deceptively light. "It's long and sordid, just the kind of story you hate."

"Let me guess - did you buy your way into your red robes? Couldn't afford a bishopric?" 

“Actually, no. When I first started with the church I was a priest at a lowly diocese a day's ride from my father's estate. Everything I have now I built myself.”

Steve made a noncommittal noise at that. His eyebrows drew together as he tried to imagine Tony as a simple pastor, delivering sermons, blessing babies and giving last rites. A week ago he would have dismissed it as impossible, but now... He turned his head to study Tony, running his eyes over Tony’s short hair and clean-shaven jaw, realizing that he seemed so much younger and more open here than he ever had in Paris. Which was the real person, he wondered: the dissolute Cardinal Stark, or Tony with the stars in his eyes?

Tony turned his head unexpectedly and smiled when he caught Steve looking at him. It was small and soft and unguarded and Steve felt like he’d been punched in the chest. “Good night,” Tony said, and rolled over to sleep.

“Good night,” Steve said automatically, but stared at the sky for a long time before falling asleep.


	5. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a fill for my Tony Stark Bingo Square R2: Pining.

The strange feeling lingered well into the next day, making Steve feel more pensive than usual. Tony, if he noticed, didn’t seem to mind; he happily chatted about whatever came to mind given the landscape they were passing. Fields of grapes remind him of a new invention called a wine press that was going to revolutionize wine making; he was apparently helping vineyards invest in the machine for a portion of their future profits. When they stopped to feed and water the horse, he described a new type of well developed in Artois that would bring water up from the ground without pumping, and as they stopped by a monastery to sell them a cask of mead, he explained how an abbey on the Isle of Reichenau had built a way of heating that worked from under the floor.

“How do you know about all of these things?” Steve finally asked when Tony stopped talking long enough to eat.

“People know that I will pay good money to someone who can tell me something I don’t know. The more interesting or useful it is, the more I pay. I’ve bought many a traveling minstrel a new instrument for bringing me news from outside of France.”

“But why?”

Tony looked confused by the question. “If I didn’t pay them, why would they bother-”

“No, I mean why do you spend so much time and effort to learn about things like forks from Italy and wine presses and vertical windmills?”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t understand how other people don’t. If I didn’t, I’d be bored out of my mind, and that is a fate worse than death.” Tony ripped off another piece of bread and chewed it, staring at Steve thoughtfully. “What about you? I know you’re not the wine, women, and song type, so what do you do in your free time? Do you stand at street corners and preach about sin? You have the disapproving scowl for it.” The smile on Tony’s face took the sting out of the words, and Steve suppressed the childish urge to stick his tongue out at him.

“I like history,” Steve said. “Some military history and tactics, but I also liked learning about people, how they lived and how they died. The Holy Land had some breathtaking architecture, and there was so much history around every corner.”

“And philosophy?” When Steve looked at him, Tony said, “Brother Peter told me that you were borrowing philosophy books from my library.”

“ _Your_ library? I thought they belonged to the church.”

“You must not have gotten very far into the collection then. Not all of those books are, shall we say, church-sanctioned.” Tony wrapped up the rest of the bread and stood, brushing crumbs off his robe. He started to climb into the wagon but when he saw Steve staring at him, aghast, he laughed. “I’m joking,” he said. “Even I’m not that much of a reprobate. Novitiates have access to that library.” Relieved, Steve took the last bite of bread and was just about to swallow when Tony flashed him a wicked grin and said, “I keep _those_ books in my private quarters.”

Steve almost choked on the bread and felt himself going red, the hot flush starting on his cheeks and spreading down to his neck and chest as Tony cackled. "I'm not even sure it's safe for me to sit next to you on this wagon," Steve managed after a moment, climbing in next to Tony. "If God smites you I don't want to be collateral damage."

"I'm sure He has more important things to worry about than one poor sinner."

" _Poor_ sinner?"

"Obscenely wealthy sinner," Tony amended. "Look at it this way - maybe your virtuousness will cancel out my sinful nature. Hey, that could be a good project for you," Tony said brightly. "While we're traveling you can try to save my soul."

Steve started to make another joke, but there was an odd twist to Tony's smile that made him think better of it. "You might be overestimating my virtuousness," he said instead. "Besides, one damsel in distress at a time, and right now it's Bucky's turn."

There was still some light to the day when they rode into the first good-sized village on their route, large enough to have a tavern with a barn and rooms for travelers but not so large that there was more than one intersection. The streets were busy, with chattering groups of women carrying laundry, men on their way home from work with the tools of their trades, and children herding goats, making it seem crowded compared to the open road they’d been on all day. It was more people than Steve had seen in one place since he’d left Paris, and he hadn’t realized how much he had gotten used to the solitude.

“Let’s stop here for the night,” Tony said when he saw the tavern, and Steve made a face.

“Are you sure? We still have plenty of daylight left.” Plenty was probably overstating it, but Steve was strangely reluctant to be around other people right now. Tony was already smiling and greeting the locals, and it made Steve even more reluctant to stop.

“And miss my chance to sleep in a bed?” Tony said lightly, flashing Steve a grin. “Seriously, though, I think we could both stand to have some hot food and a good rest.”

Tony’s enthusiasm was strong enough that Steve didn’t have the energy to argue with him, especially since he didn’t have a good reason to protest. Tony went inside to negotiate for a place to sleep while Steve took care of the horse and wagon.

When Steve came in from the stable, he saw Tony in a dark corner of the tavern speaking to the innkeeper. As he watched, Tony pulled something out of his pocket that gleamed briefly of gold before it disappeared again. After seeing it, the innkeeper nodded and leaned in close as he spoke, clearly trying to keep someone from overhearing what he was saying. Tony’s eyebrows drew together in concentration and he nodded periodically as he listened. When the innkeeper finally pulled back, Tony shook his hand and passed over a coin, which disappeared into the innkeeper’s pockets. Then to Steve’s surprise, they spoke again for another few minutes and money changed hands again before Tony finally made his way through the crowded room over to where Steve was sitting.

“What was all that?” Steve asked as Tony sat down at the table where the serving maid had already set down bowls of stew for them both.

“A bit of business,” Tony said. “I’m going to need some privacy tonight, but before we leave tomorrow, I am going to need you to help me get one of those mead barrels off the wagon.”

Steve paused with his food halfway to his mouth, then slowly lowered it. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Why?”

“Well, the mead is for the innkeeper. As for the other,” Tony shrugged and looked at him with wry amusement. “Are you sure you want my sins on your conscience?”

“Oh,” Steve said when he realized what Tony was trying to say. Suddenly the exchange of money made sense; he must have been negotiating for... He put his fork and knife down, appetite gone. “Ok, that’s fine, I’ll just…I can bunk down in the stable –"

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Tony said, rolling his eyes. “I just need an hour or two, not the whole night.”

Steve spent a great deal of effort to keep his face neutral when his stomach was churning and heart was pounding with some emotion he couldn’t name. “That’s fine,” he repeated. He picked up his fork again, forcing himself to continue eating so Tony would know how fine everything was. He could feel Tony’s eyes on him, so he kept his motions light and easy even though he wanted to drive his eating knife through the wooden table.

“Good,” Tony said eventually, pushing away from the table to stand. “I need to prepare, so if you need anything from the room, just knock first.”

Steve nodded without looking up from his food, trying not to think about what Tony meant by ‘prepare.’ Bucky had often teased him for how little time he spent with women, particularly women of easy or negotiable virtue, but he’d seen them in the market and lounging in doors with their kohled eyes and rouged lips. His traitorous thoughts flashed an image of Tony looking up at someone through darkened lashes and kohl-rimmed eyes and he realized his hands were shaking. “I’m finished,” he said, pushing his trencher away. He thought about returning to their room to gather his sketchbook and pencils, but realized he was in no state to sit still and concentrate. Instead he cleaned off his knife and fork and tucked them into his belt. "I'll go...walk, I guess."

Tony looked at him, puzzled. "Why go anywhere?" He looked around the tavern, which was starting to fill up with people and the buzz of conversation. "If you stay here and make conversation you might learn something about your friend, you never know."

Everything in Steve rebelled at the thought of just sitting here and waiting while Tony's bedpartner went into their room and stayed there for hours, doing - while Tony - "No, I feel like walking," Steve said; what he felt like was running away, away from this room that seemed too close and loud. He could feel Tony's eyes on his back as he left the tavern, but outside it was thankfully cooler and quieter. He looked back at the tavern once, then turned away and started to jog, planning to run until this sick, nervous energy was gone.

* * *

From the door of the tavern, Tony watched, baffled, as Steve left town at a steady jog, dodging the remaining townsfolk as they wrapped up their day. Shaking his head at Steve's strange behavior, he went up to their room to prepare for his contact's arrival, having arranged to meet them here this evening before ever having left Paris. He emptied the chest full of his and Steve's belongings and opened up the false bottom, pulling out his official ledger, his unofficial ledger, and the journal with all of the reports that came in from Sister Natasha's spy network. The sky was starting to edge towards dusk, the scene outside of the window getting smudged with growing shadows, when he heard a distinctive bird call.

"Sister Natasha?" Tony said with surprise. After checking to make sure no one was lingering near his room, Tony leaned out the window and said, “You can come up now.” He stepped back and then offered her a hand as she climbed over the sill, straightening her wimple and shaking the dirt from her robes. “I'm surprised to see that you came yourself, I know you hate leaving Paris,” he said. "Anything wrong?"

“No." After glancing around the room with interest, she hopped up to sit on the bed and pulled out some tightly folded and sealed sheets of paper. "Sister Virginia has been wanting to know how you were doing, stuck here with Rodgers,” she said as Tony broke the seal and started reading. "So I thought I'd come myself instead of sending someone."

“We're doing fine,” Tony said absently, tapping a sheet of paper against his lips as he thought. “So it seems like Steve might be right about Barnes going to Chatellerault, then, if he was seen passing through Tours?”

He was so lost in thought he didn’t see Natasha’s eyebrows go up when he said ‘Steve.’ “That’s what they’re saying,” she said slowly. “We’ve been passing around a likeness from Rodgers’ sketchbook and got a few positive identifications. Also, here are the reports from Sister Virginia, on your legal businesses, here’s the report from Brother Scott on your illegal businesses, and a letter from Captain Rhodes.” As Tony skimmed through the sheaf of papers she’d handed him, Sister Natasha swung her legs, looking like a young girl. “So, you going to tell me more about what’s going on with you and _Steve_?”

Tony frowned as he folded the papers and set them aside. “What do you mean?” he asked as he handed over the instructions and information that he’d prepared for Sister Virginia and Captain Rhodes. He also pulled out a sheet of parchment and quickly wrote out the information that he’d gotten from the innkeeper for Natasha to take back with her for analysis.

Natasha sighed. “Sister Virginia said you were pretty oblivious to certain matters, but now I have to wonder if you are being deliberately obtuse.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Rodgers looks at you like he doesn’t know whether he wants to fight you or fuck you,” she said bluntly, surprising a laugh out of Tony. He started shaking his head in protest and she jumped down off the bed. “I’m serious,” she insisted as she tucked Tony’s papers into a hidden pocket of her habit. “Sister Virginia agrees, and so would Brother Peter if he could tell sexual tension from a hole in the ground.”

Tony was still shaking his head in disagreement. “Steve wants to fight me, maybe, but not fuck me. He’s made it pretty clear that I represent everything he hates about Church venality and hypocrisy. You should have seen the look on his face when I surprised him at the monastery.”

Natasha snorted. “He may think you’re a dirty sinner, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to do any dirty sinning with you.”

“How are you even a nun?” Tony wondered, lifting his eyes to heaven as if praying for patience. “I’ve met madams whose minds spent less time in the gutter.” He tried to act offended but he still let her pull him down so she could kiss him on his cheek.

“You only have yourself to blame for that one. Watch your ass, Cardinal,” Natasha said as she threw a leg over the windowsill.

“For God’s sake, Natasha-“

“I _meant_ because you’re not the only ones looking for this guy Barnes,” Natasha said primly, her eyes sparkling. “Now who’s mind is in the gutter?” Then she dropped out of sight before Tony could respond. He leaned out the window to see if he could catch her leaving, but as usual, it was like she vanished into thin air.

* * *

The problem with this plan, Steve realized as he left the small town behind and started passing through farmland, is that it left him entirely too much time to think. The sun got low in the sky and Steve thought about Tony lighting candles for his mysterious lover. He wondered if it was a man or a woman, and for reasons he shied away from thinking about, he hoped it was a woman. He tried to focus on the run, the air in his lungs and the ground under his feet, but as the sky darkened he couldn’t help but wonder what Tony was doing. In the few times that he’d waited for Bucky while he gave in to the temptations of the flesh, he’d only waited for half an hour before Bucky returned, looking smug. What was Tony going to do for _two hours_?

“Stop it, Steve,” he muttered to himself, and started reciting the Lord’s Prayer to himself as he ran. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis,” he panted, and his mind whispered, _I’m teaching them the Word of God_. “Sanctificetur nomen tuum,” he said loudly, trying to drown out his thoughts, but he still heard Tony’s voice purring in his ears - _Well, they were calling His name a lot –_ and saw the sinful curve of his mouth. Saw his hands, with their long clever fingers and narrow palms, stroking over smooth skin; imagined the way the long, lean muscles of Tony’s back would move as he-

Steve’s steps stuttered as he realized he was getting hard. He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to continue with the Lord’s Prayer, but his mind and body had other plans; no matter how much he pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, he couldn’t erase the images of Tony’s body, sweaty and flushed, moving against that of a faceless stranger. How he would look in the throes of passion, head thrown back, eyes dark with pleasure. _Yes, just like that,_ he imagined him saying. _You’re perfect, so good for me._ He bit his lip as they tingled with the desire to find out what Tony tasted like. 

He slowed and came to a halt in the middle of the road, heart racing less from the exercise than the turn of his thoughts. He raked his fingers across his scalp, hoping the sting would distract him, but finally a groan, he gave in and stepped off the road in search of privacy. Finding a small stand of trees, he fumbled with his robe and unfastened his braes, pulling out his erection. He was guiltily aware that he was barely hidden from the road, braced against a tree with his breath was sawing roughly in and out of his lungs as he stroked himself, but he was already too far gone to stop. He closed his eyes and bit back a curse at the toe-curling pleasure as he took himself in hand. He imagined going back to the inn and finding Tony still lounging in tangled sheets, eyes heavy-lidded. _You want to know what it's like, don't you?_ He would say, sitting up and baring his chest as the sheets slid down to pool at his hips. _Come here._ And Steve would go, taking off his clothes and letting Tony pull him into bed. Tony would press him back against the sheets, hands roaming over his chest, skimming his shoulders, gripping the back of his neck with one hand while the other slid down Steve's stomach and up his thighs, teasing. 

Steve moaned, stifling the noise in his fist, and his hand moved faster. His skin was on fire, prickling with the need to be touched. In his mind, Tony murmured _I’ve got this, let me take care of you_ while he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses on Steve's neck. Maybe – maybe Tony would use his mouth on him, Steve thought, breath catching; Bucky said that women would do that sometimes – then he was coming with Tony’s name on lips just from the thought of that warm, wet heat on his cock. He slumped against the tree, panting, knees weak as he shivered through the last aftershocks of pleasure. 

But once the heat of illicit arousal was gone, the sick feeling of guilt and shame set in, making Steve feel cold inside. He tucked himself back into his pants, wiped his hands on the grass with a grimace, and went back to running, keeping his head down to watch his footing; when it got too dark to see, he finally turned around and started the long walk back to town.

By the time he got back to the inn, the shame had faded to resignation. He’d done enough Hail Mary’s for his sins on the walk back to satisfy the most exacting confessor. It wasn’t until he was outside the inn that he realized now he was going to have to face a well-pleasured Tony and sleep in the bed the man had just fornicated in. With a sigh, he dipped his hands in the cold water of the horse trough outside and rinsed off his sweat and washed his hands.

When he came into the room, he was surprised and, though he would never admit it to himself, a bit disappointed to see Tony fully dressed and sitting at the writing desk bent over a stack of papers instead of lounging in bed, tousled and sleepy. The shutters were closed, but there was no smell of sex in the air, so they must have been opened earlier; Steve felt an unwelcome wave of heat crawl down his back at the idea that they’d left the shutters open while they fucked, letting their moans echo in the night air for anyone to hear.

“You look dyspeptic, Steve,” Tony said, shuffling his papers together and setting them aside. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Steve said tightly. He’d thought that he was over this, but now that he was back in the same room as Tony it was clear that the run had accomplished little, other than making him sweaty and his legs sore; he was just as irritated and nervous as he’d been an hour ago. He couldn’t help glancing at the bed, expecting a mess, but apparently Tony had tidied after his assignation.

But Tony saw his glance and suddenly smiled. “Is it the bed? I suppose this is our first night in a room together,” he mused. “But we are just two men of the cloth sharing a bed out of necessity. Nothing scandalous about that, right?”

“It’s fine, Tony,” Steve muttered. The room was starting to feel too hot and close, just like the tavern had, so he opened the shutters to the cool night air. 

“Good, good. Don’t know why I thought it might be a problem. It’s not like we haven’t both taken vows of chastity.”

“Theoretically,” Steve said sarcastically but Tony’s grin only widened. 

“Perhaps we should ask the inn if they have a bundling board,” Tony continued, his voice still light and teasing. “To make sure that no one strays from their side of the bed.”

“Enough, Tony." It was already going to be hard enough to sleep in this bed while trying not to think about what Tony had just done in it, he didn’t need his teasing on top of it.

Tony raised his hands in surrender. “As you wish.” He watched Steve fold his robe neatly and set it on top of their traveling chest and then said, “By the way, I like to sleep naked. I hope that doesn’t offend your sensibilities.”

“Dammit, Tony. Is everything a joke to you?” Steve started to shout and remembered where he was, so he lowered his voice to an angry snarl. “Some people take their vows of celibacy seriously.” Suddenly he couldn’t bear to be in the room anymore, so he muttered, “I will sleep in the stable,” and barely refrained from slamming the door behind himself as he left.

 _Vow of celibacy?_ Tony stared at the door for a long time in shock, blinking rapidly as his mind raced. What in the hell did he mean, _vow of celibacy?_ He thought about going after Rodgers to find out, but he didn’t feel like dealing with whatever had the touchy knight in a snit after the otherwise pleasant day they’d had. “For Christ’s sake,” he muttered under his breath as he shed his monk’s robe and slid between the sheets. “Don’t know what sleeping in my braes has to do with vows of celibacy, it’s not like I was propositioning-Holy Mother of God,” he breathed, sitting up straight in bed when he finally realized why Steve was angry. “Sister Natasha was right.” He blinked into the darkness and fell back against the pillows with a groan. “Shit. She is never going to let me live this down.”


	6. The Hydra

By the time Tony had packed the trunk and was ready to leave in the morning, he could see Rodgers was already leading the horse out to hitch it to the wagon. Tony held the horse’s head as Rodgers fastened the straps of the harness, trying to figure out how to apologize for teasing him last night. “Steve,” he started, but lost his courage when Steve looked up at him, blue eyes remote. “Do you want breakfast?” he said instead.

“Sure,” Steve said shortly, turning back to his work.

Tony fled back into the inn and returned after a few minutes with eggs, toast, and a few rashers of bacon. He loaded their chest into the wagon as Steve ate, the silence between them painfully awkward. “I’ll drive,” he muttered when they were ready to go. If he didn’t have something to do with his hands right now he’d go mad. Thankfully Steve just nodded and climbed into the side seat. Unlike the previous two days, the silence between them today was agonizing; Steve was sitting next to him, stiff-backed and staring straight ahead, while Tony hunched defensively over the reins. Tony must have thought of and discarded dozens of potential conversational topics, things he wouldn’t have hesitated to bring up yesterday, but every time he saw Steve out of the corner of his eye he ended up deciding that discretion was the better form of valor.

He was just about to ask Steve to take over driving when he felt the man’s hand on his arm. “Do you hear that?” Steve asked intently, staring ahead with his brow furrowed.

Tony concentrated and after a moment he realized what he was talking about. “Sounds like fighting,” Tony said. “And not far away.” 

Steve was already jumping out of the wagon as Tony pulled to a stop. He fumbled for the latch to the hidden compartment for the swords and threw his hands up in frustration when it didn't immediately open. “Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll check it out.”

Tony stared incredulously at Steve’s back as he jogged down the road towards the sound of shouting and ring of weapons. “Sure, I’ll just twiddle my thumbs while I wait,” he called out sarcastically. He climbed down and led the horse off the road, tying it to tree branch to keep it from wandering off, and pulled out Steve’s sword and one of his own. He jogged to catch up with Steve but when he cleared the copse of trees to see the fight, he lowered the swords in surprise. 

Since Steve no longer wore his Templar robes and surplice, it was easy to forget that he was a battle-tested warrior; right now, however, Tony was vividly reminded of that fact as Steve mowed his way through the four armed bandits without so much as a shield. One bandit went down from a sharp kick to the side of his knee; he dropped his sword and cried out with pain as he fell, clutching his leg. Another swung clumsily at Steve with a sword that was spotted with rust; Steve ducked and grabbed the man's sword hand, twisting it until he let go, then punched him in the face, breaking his nose and sending him stumbling backwards. When he hit the ground, he didn't get back up, knocked out cold. A third man, seeing how quickly his compatriots were defeated, apparently decided that discretion was the better part of valor and sprinted for the woods while a fourth was struggling with a black man wearing Muslim garb. Tony moved to intercept the fleeing bandit but Steve got him with a flying tackle before he could get very far. All of the fight seemed to go out of the last man standing as he saw that his friends were all unconscious or on the ground groaning, and he dropped his sword and backed away from his opponent, putting his hands up in defeat.

Steve didn't notice Tony standing there until he was pulling the man that he had tackled to the ground to his feet and dragged him over to his injured and unconscious friends. “You didn’t want to help?” Steve asked, a little breathless with exertion. His color was high and eyes bright from the thrill of the fight and Tony couldn't stop staring, stomach swooping and heart skipping a beat.

“You seemed to have it well in hand,” Tony said a beat too late, suddenly remembering that Steve was talking to him. "You didn't even need this," he added, handing him his sword.

Behind them, the stranger shoved his own captive towards the rest and said, with clear but accented French, “Sit, you thieving dog, before I have your hands.” He brandished his curved sword with a scowl and the bandit sat, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his hands into his armpits protectively.

“Are you injured?” Steve asked the stranger, turning away. Tony blinked and shook himself, then went to stand guard over the captives, still dazed by his sudden very real desire to kiss Steve senseless.

“No,” the man said, waving Steve away. “Not injured, just winded. One of those bastards got a lucky punch to my gut just before you showed up." He wiped his hand on his pants and held it out for Steve to shake. "My name is Hassam, but you may call me Sam. And you are?”

“Brother Steve,” Tony said quickly before Steve could answer, not confident that Steve would remember that they were technically supposed to be in disguise. “And I am Brother Eduard,” he said as he shook Sam’s hand as well. "Of the congregation of Saint Victor."

"Well met, Brothers." Sam sheathed his scimitar as he eyed Tony and Steve warily, taking in their plain homespun robes and their high-quality swords. “Tell me, do all men of God in your country carry weapons?”

“No, not all,” Tony said, lips quirking. "It’s all very well and good to preach non-violence, but as you can see, it pays to have a backup plan.” 

It turned out that Hassam was a merchant that had been attacked on his way to the town that Steve and Tony just left. Steve tied up the would-be bandits and rode them back to the town to wait for the bailiff while Tony agreed to help Sam relocate his horse and wagon. They found the wagon a little further down the road, mired in mud from where the horse fled from the fighting. Freeing the wagon was muddy, miserable work; whatever Hassam was transporting, it was in heavy barrels and by the time the wagon was light enough to get out of the mud they were both filthy and exhausted and the sun was low in the sky. When they were done, Tony sat down on the grass and leaned against one of the barrels, groaning as his thighs and back complained from the unusual labor. Sam followed, sighing with relief as he sat.

“What do you have here, anyway?” Tony said as he thumped the barrel behind his back. “Mead? Ale? Wine?”

“Better than all of those,” Sam said. “Distilled alcohol.”

“Distilled?” Tony repeated. “Using al-Kindi’s method?”

Sam looked at him approvingly. “An infidel that knows the wisdom of al-Kindi,” he said. “Will wonders never cease. Yes, I did use al-Kindi’s methods. My family moved from Baghdad to al-Andalus, and we brought his knowledge with us.” He patted the barrels fondly. “We have started a distillery in Al-Barracin and I had the idea to start selling our goods to the rich infidels to the north.”

“Oh?”

Sam nodded. “I was told to speak to someone known as the Iron Cardinal, have you heard of him?”

Tony tried not to tense and glanced at the road to make sure Steve wasn't close by. Tony didn’t like the idea of Steve knowing any more than he already did about his work as the Iron Cardinal; Steve already thought Tony was unsavory enough without knowing about the spying and the illicit trade network. “I have, actually. Where did you hear that name?”

“I have been speaking to innkeepers for the past two weeks of travel, and they all say that no one will buy my alcohol unless I get permission from this Iron Cardinal to sell it. I cannot tell if he must give it his blessing because distilled alcohol is _haram -_ what’s the word?”

“Forbidden,” Tony answered, and Sam looked at him sharply. Tony kept his face blank but cursed himself inwardly; a simple monk would not know Arabic. Natasha would be scolding him for his carelessness if she were here.

“Forbidden, yes,” he said slowly. “Or if it is because they do not do anything without this man’s permission.”

“The Iron Cardinal protects people around here, so they tend to defer to his judgment,” Tony said vaguely. “I could arrange an introduction, if you want, but he’s in Paris.”

Sam shrugged. “I was planning on traveling to Paris anyway. That is where the king is, that will be where the money is.” At the dull clop of hooves against the dirt road, they looked up and saw Steve returning, looking damnably clean and barely tired. With a groan Tony grabbed the edge of the barrel behind him and pulled himself to his feet.

“I think it’s too close to dark to continue on today,” Steve said, reaching out to steady Tony when he almost tipped over. “I saw a stream on the way here if anyone would like to rinse the mud off,” he added, eyeing the smeared muck that covered Tony up to his knees, “and there is a clearing not too far away to stop for the night.”

An hour later, the fire was burning merrily and everyone was clean and fed. Tony reached for his messenger bag while Sam showed Steve the curved blade of his sabre and they talked about the unique dappled pattern of the steel. He listened with half an ear to their discussion about the forging process as he flipped through the pages provided by Natasha yesterday; halfway through, a drawing caught his eye. Natasha’s spidery scrawl underneath it, written in code, said that people wearing this symbol on a signet were also asking for a man matching Bucky’s description.

Tony studied it for a moment, trying to figure out what it was. “Brother Steve, have you ever seen this symbol before?” He passed the crude sketch over and Steve frowned as he studied it.

Steve rotated the picture slowly, still studying it, and then he stopped. “Yes, actually,” he said, sounding surprised. “But this is a very poor picture. Hold on.” He got up quickly, dug through the chest of their belongings, and pulled out his sketchbook and pencils. Tony watched with interest as Steve’s hand moved quickly over the page; he'd never seen Steve draw before, and he really was very talented. Under his hands a slightly different picture emerged; what before had looked like a nest of snakes eating each other became one snake with many heads. “I saw this more than once in the Holy Lands,” he said as he passed the book over for Tony to study the picture. “Where did you see it?”

“A friend was asking me about it,” Tony said absently. “What is that? A hydra?”

“Can I see it?” Sam asked unexpectedly and Tony handed over the drawing. As soon as he saw Steve’s sketch he looked grim. “Not _a_ hydra,” he said. “ _The_ Hydra.” He handed the book back to Steve. “In Baghdad they are a well known as a group of thugs and assassins.”

Steve stilled. “We would sometimes find this on the bodies of dead Templars,” he said grimly, and Sam nodded.

“A calling card. I am surprised to find that symbol here, though. If their reach has spread this far, that is very concerning. They thrive on chaos; they spread it wherever they go like the wake of a ship.”

“Tony,” Steve said, and the note in his voice made Tony look up from the rest of Natasha’s notes, trying to find another mention of the men wearing this symbol. “Are these men-” He stopped suddenly, casting a furtive glance at Sam. “Er, going to be a problem?” he finished after a moment. He gave Tony a significant look, and Tony barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes at Steve’s obviousness, since Sam was glancing between them with interest and listening intently.

Tony took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It appears so, yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Well, the obvious answer is that they were likely after the relics in Bucky’s care, unless Bucky made some persistent enemies while he was stationed in the Holy Land. But what did a group of assassins from the East want with Christian relics, and more bafflingly, how did they know that Bucky had them? “Sam, is there anything else you know about these people?”

“There is much _said_ about the Hydra, but not much _known._ They have been declared heretics by the Caliph because they believe that it is possible to become gods by harnessing the power of belief. The more people who believe they have god-like powers, the more power they will get.” Sam shook his head and brushed his hands together like he was cleaning dirt off his palms. “Pure nonsense.”

“Have you ever run into them?”

“Not directly. But someone carved that symbol,” Sam gestured to Steve’s book with his chin, “into the wood of my family’s home in Baghdad. I told my family we shouldn’t let them drive us from our home with vague threats, but my father and his brothers would hear none of it. That is why we are now in al-Andalus, rubbing elbows with unbelievers.”

“Huh,” Tony said. He put the drawing back in their chest and ostentatiously put his papers away, hoping that Steve got the message: _we’ll talk about this later._ But Steve didn’t even seem to be looking at him; he was staring into the fire, jaw tight. “Thank you for your wisdom, Hassam,” Tony said, trying to distract Sam from noticing Steve’s distress. “Now. Is there any chance we could try some of this distilled alcohol of yours?”

Steve took first watch that night because he knew he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep, not with thoughts of the Hydra chasing themselves around his brain. The fired died down to banked red coals, and Sam and Tony had long since fallen still and silent. Keeping watch was always dull work, but tonight was excruciating; knowing that somewhere out there was a shadowy group of assassins and that they were also looking for Bucky made it difficult to sit still and listen to the nighttime chorus of crickets and frogs. Today’s brief skirmish had showed him how much he missed the simplicity of a sword in his hand and an enemy to fight, and he longed to find the right person to hit enough times to get Bucky back. More than once his gaze fell to the horses, who were dozing at the edge of camp, hoofs cocked, and he had to resist the temptation to take one and ride as fast as he could to Chatellerault.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Tony’s voice said softly out of the darkness. “But if you do that, you might as well be waving a flag for everyone looking for him.”

Steve understood what Tony was saying, he really did. He’d been the one to counsel hot-headed youths fresh to war of the value of patience, of knowing when to strike to double the chance of success. But never before had Bucky been in danger without Steve by his side, and he found that he couldn’t find any of his former wisdom right now. “How long will it take us to get there?”

“Another day. End of tomorrow, perhaps, if we leave at first light and pick up the pace.”

Steve nodded, then realized Tony probably couldn’t see him. “Very well.” Discipline was the difference between a knight and a mere fighter, he told himself, and if nothing else, he was still a knight. He heard a rustling, then felt Tony sit down beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Steve swallowed thickly at the contact; between yesterday and today he felt like a raw nerve, exposed and sensitive. Any equanimity he'd found in the monastery had been shattered by this journey, and he felt as lost and wrong-footed as he had when Bucky had first shaken him awake in the small hours of the morning.

“You’ve trusted me this far,” Tony said, voice pitched low to avoid waking Hassam. He sounded unbearably intimate, speaking in the darkness like this. “Please trust me a little more. There are…” He hesitated for a moment. “There are other people working on helping us find Bucky. We’re not alone in this.”

 _We_ , Tony said. Steve liked the sound of that a bit more than he should. He scrubbed his hands over his face and tried to force the feeling away. “People like Thomas? Your robber turned smuggler?”

Tony huffed in amusement. “Something like that.”

Steve was silent for a long time, but eventually the words forced themselves from his throat from where he’d been trying to keep them behind his teeth for days now. “I can’t help thinking that we might already be too late,” he whispered. “If we are…”

“We aren't,” Tony said firmly, so confident that Steve could almost believe him. Tony put a hand on Steve’s forearm and squeezed, and Steve felt his heart skip a beat. “You know, I admire your loyalty to your friend. It’s quite rare, in my experience. Something to be treasured.”

Steve could well imagine, given Tony’s position in the treacherous world of royal politics. “I barely know who I am without Bucky. Without the…well, you know.” He touched his chest without thinking, where the Templar cross should have been emblazoned in bright red on white.

“You’ll figure it out. Everything will be fine, you’ll see.” Tony must have just realized that he was still touching Steve because he hastily drew his hand back. Steve could still feel the warmth of it on his skin, even through the cloth of his robes. He wanted to take Tony’s hand and put it back on his arm. He wanted to put his hands on Tony. He wanted to bury his face in Tony’s neck, press him back against the grass, and forget the world for a few minutes, to lose himself to raw sensation. He wanted all of this with such sudden ferocity that it terrified him, and it took him a moment to realize Tony was still talking. “But you know, finding him is just the first step,” Tony warned. “After that, we still have to figure out what should be done with the relics.”

A thought occurred to Steve, a mean, unworthy thought, but he was suddenly so tangled up in fear and lust and a hot, crawling shame that the words came out unbidden. “Is that why you’re helping me? To get your hands on the relics?”

Tony’s eyes flew to Steve’s from where he’d been staring up at the stars. “What?”

“You said that the relics could give their owner the kind of power to change the future of Christiandom,” Steve said. He felt like he was watching himself, horrified by the bilious spite spilling from him but unable to stop. “Do you want them for yourself? Is that it?”

“Is that what you really think?” Tony’s asked after a moment, voice hard and level.

“I-"

“Because do you want to know what _I_ think?” Tony stood swiftly, catching Steve by surprise. “I think of the people here, the person you distrust the most is _yourself._ And I’m tired of being the target of your self-hatred.”

Steve inhaled sharply, feeling cut to the bone, flayed open and exposed. Tony _knew_. Somehow he knew and that was unbearable. “Then why _are_ you here?” Steve growled, surging to his feet. The sudden flare of panic-driven anger was a force beyond his control, hot and scary, like being on a runaway horse. “You don’t even know Bucky. You’re telling me you left your silk sheets and bedmates to come sleep on the ground out of the goodness of your heart?”

Tony stared at him, speechless. “You are a real piece of work, Rodgers. I’m going to help you find your friend, though God knows you don’t deserve it, and then you can take all that self-righteousness and sexual repression and _go fuck yourself._ ” With that, he turned on his heel and stalked into the darkness.

“ _Fuck_!” Steve burst out under his breath, pacing away. He fisted his hands in his too-long hair and pulled, the sharp sting of it distracting him from the tangled knot in his chest. He tried to hold on to the anger, the frustration and impatience, but at the core of it was just fear, curdling his stomach and sliding slickly through his veins. Tony was right, damn him – _damn them both._ Tony had never been the problem. He realized now, as he should have months ago, that he didn’t dislike Tony. Christ, if only it were that simple. In truth, he was scared of what Tony made him feel, the strength of it and what it meant. How Tony would react when he found out. And now, when those feelings came too close to the surface, Steve reacted in the worst possible way. His shoulders sagged as the anger drained away as fast as it had come, leaving him feeling cold and hollow. 

With a sigh, he sat back down next to the fire, rubbing his eyes. _One more day,_ he told himself. Tomorrow they would find Bucky, rescue him from whatever trouble he was in, and…well, that was where Steve’s imagination failed him, mostly because he was weak enough to wish that finding Bucky meant that life would go back to normal. Steve let out another long, low breath, feeling a stab of pain at the thought. The idea that the Templars might be gone forever hurt like an open wound; his thoughts always shied away from it, and today was no exception. And now, the thought of a future without Tony in it somehow seemed colorless and dull. 

_One more day_ , he thought again. Maybe Bucky would be able to envision a happy ending better than Steve could.


	7. The Rescue

Steve managed to get sleep in restless fits and starts, finally waking at dawn to see Tony harnessing their horse and Sam praying in the corner of the clearing. Feeling stiff after an unsatisfying night’s sleep, Steve stretched and went to the stream behind the clearing to wash his face, raking his fingers through his hair and trying to clear his head. He dried his face with the sleeve of his robe and returned to camp as Tony was kicking dirt over the fire to put it out. Sam was stowing his prayer mat in his wagon and Tony was just starting to lead their horse to the road when Sam stopped them.

“Brother Steve, Brother Eduard, please, stay a moment. I have something I must ask you.” Sam tucked his hands into the wide sleeves of his burnoose. “I apologize if I am presuming on our short acquaintance, but I cannot help but feel that you had more than a passing interest in Hydra. If you are planning to investigate the presence of the Hydra in these lands, I would like to join you. I have always been ashamed that my family ran instead of confronting them and I do not want to miss my chance again.”

Steve stared blankly, unsure of what to say. Tony seemed surprised too, but recovered faster. “Hassam, your courage humbles me, but even if we were planning to track down this organization – which we aren’t,” which was true, for now at least, because Bucky was the priority, “this isn’t your fight. We don’t even know if this is truly the Hydra.”

“But if it is the Hydra, then it is everyone’s fight,” Sam said stubbornly. “If they are here, then they will be in my new home soon, if they are not already.”

Tony shook his head. “Hassam, if you want to help, we need someone to take word of the Hydra to Paris. I will tell you how to find the Iron Cardinal, and if you tell him what you know he will know what to do.”

Steve didn’t like the narrow-eyed look Sam was giving them and braced himself for an argument. But after a moment, the look vanished and Sam bowed his head. “If that’s truly what you think is best, I defer to your judgment.”

Tony nodded, relieved. He pulled a note out of his pocket, sealed with a spot of gold wax and a thumbprint. “Go to Notre Dame in Paris and give this to a monk there named Brother Scott. He will give you further instructions.” He held out his hand. “Safe travels, and I hope we meet again soon.”

“Inshallah,” Sam said, shaking Tony’s hand, then Steve’s. “You as well.”

They watched until Hassam and his wagon were out of sight before they climbed into their own and headed towards Chatellerault. The first part of the day was spent in silence, broken only by the jangling of the horse’s harness and the clop of its hooves. Tony kept his eyes on the road the entire time, jaw set with a thin line between his brows.

“I’m sorry,” Steve finally managed to say, having practiced the words in his head all morning. “I know it’s not…I know it doesn’t make up for what I said, but for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Tony didn't even spare him a glance. "You always make such pretty apologies, Rodgers," Tony said after a long moment, voice cool, and Steve's stomach sank. "When Jesus said that the righteous man turns the other cheek, he didn't say that he had to keep going back for more." Somehow, despite the coarse brown robes he wore, the stubble on his cheeks and his closely-shorn hair, Tony had pulled Cardinal Stark around him like a cloak, seeming suddenly out of reach though he sat a few handspans away. Steve bowed his head and didn't argue; he knew that he wasn't owed forgiveness just because he asked for it. 

The next time anyone spoke it was Tony making an idle observation about the landscape, and Steve took the reprieve gratefully; any words at all from Tony right now felt like a benediction even though he knew it wasn’t. The ensuing conversation was politely stilted, with none of Tony's previous enthusiasm despite Steve's efforts to ask leading questions. Steve persisted, however, with a dogged stubbornness, and the sun was just starting to make long shadows of the trees when their jerky conversation was interrupted by the sound of galloping hoofbeats coming from behind them. Steve pulled the wagon over to the side of the road to let the rider go past, but as soon as they sped by the rider reined the horse in and pulled it in a circle to face them, face masked by a scarf pulled over their nose and mouth and covered head to toe by a hooded cloak. Steve tensed and reached for his sword, fearing another bandit attack, but Tony stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. His voice was tight with concern, but all he said as he climbed out of the wagon was, “I think I know who this is. Let me talk to them first.” 

Tony trotted up to Natasha, recognizing her despite her disguise mostly because she was riding Friday, Tony’s favorite horse. Tony put a hand on Friday’s halter and despite his worry, smiled when the horse bumped him with her nose and snorted, recognizing his scent.

“What’s wrong?” He asked Natasha, stroking Friday’s soft nose. “I thought you were on your way to Paris after yesterday.”

“A message from Brother Scott reached me when I was on my way.” Natasha glanced up at Steve, who was watching them intently. “I know where Barnes is, and it’s not good.”

Natasha led them to a farm that was set off the main road and had them park the wagon behind the barn where it couldn’t be seen. Tony expected the farm to be abandoned, but it was clearly still lived in, with a tidy stack of firewood by the house and linen drying on the line.

“They are visiting family in town,” Natasha explained. “They were happy to help the Iron-”

Tony hushed her and drew her away from the barn where Steve was unharnessing the horse. “The less said about the Iron Cardinal, the better.”

“So you’re saying Steve doesn’t know?”

“Look, Steve knows about the – well, you know, but it’s…complicated.”

“Complicated? What happened to make it complicated?” Natasha said, studying the look on Tony’s face. Then her eyes widened. “Did you two-”

“No! No. Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” Tony said shortly. “What’s this news you have? You said you knew where Barnes was.”

With another dubious look, Natasha thankfully dropped the subject. Looking over the shoulder at the barn, she pulled Tony inside the farmhouse. “Did you know Lord Stane, Vicomte de Chatellerault, has recently been paying his respects to King Phillipe?”

“Obadiah?” Tony repeated in surprise. “I knew he’d been at court for some time, but not why."

“Well, word is that he spent a lot of time suggesting that perhaps the Templars’ relics really ought to belong to the King. Perhaps even suggested how the King could get his hands on them and rid himself of some crippling debts in the process.”

"Are you serious?" Tony's jaw dropped. “Stane? All of this was _Stane’s_ idea _?_ ”

Natasha spread her hands. “So it would seem.”

“There’s no way he did this on his own,” Tony said, mostly to himself, rubbing his temples against a sudden headache. “He’s well-connected but not that powerful. But the real question is _why_?”

“Best guess is because of this.” Natasha pulled something out of her pocket; it was a hardened bit of clay and pressed into the center was the symbol that Steve had sketched, the many-headed Hydra. “The source found this stamp hidden in Stane’s desk.”

Tony turned the clay over in his hands, still stunned. “So it’s been about the relics the whole time? Stane’s working with this – this cult and was trying to get access to the relics?”

“Is that what this symbol represents? A cult? One of the other sources in Paris said it was the symbol of a secret organization.”

“Steve recognized it from the Holy Land, and we ran across a fellow traveler who knew what it meant. They call themselves the Hydra and apparently they are a bunch of fanatical assassins from Baghdad. They think that they can become gods through magic or prayer or something.” Tony ran his thumb over the impression, mind racing. “Maybe they think the relics can give them power.”

Natasha frowned thoughtfully and started to pace, ticking off her thoughts on her fingers. “So Stane gets involved with this cult somehow. They want the Temple’s relics, but the Templars don’t allow anyone access except a select few.”

“So you have to separate the Templars from the relics. They won’t give them up, so-”

“So you eliminate them. Or rather, have the King eliminate them.” Natasha bit her lip and her eyebrows drew together in concentration. “Stane probably expected some sort of reward for his involvement – at the very least, he’d be able to talk his way into accessing the relics. But then Barnes runs off with them-”

“And Stane sees an opportunity to have them all for himself,” Tony finished. “And unfortunately for Barnes, he runs straight towards the architect of this whole mess."

"Exactly."

"So you’re saying Stane has Barnes.” Tony ran a hand a hand over his face. "Great."

Natasha looked at him sympathetically. "I know Stane is close to your father. You don't think-"

“Who is Stane?” Steve suddenly said from the doorway, making Tony jump. The look on his face was grim and his hands were curled into fists at his sides. “And where do I find him?”

Tony answered to the first question on their way to the local tavern, where Natasha said that they would get the answer to the second. The place was busy, likely because of the minstrel that was tuning his citole and warming up his fingers in the corner of the room. Natasha kept her hood up and scarf around her neck, not wanting to attract attention; she found a table in a corner far from the performer that was unoccupied and took a seat. Tony and Steve sat as well, flagging down the serving maid for ale and food while they waited for Natasha’s contact to arrive.

“This man is a local ironworker,” she explained when the serving maid left, leaning back in her chair and balancing it on the two back legs. “I found him because he’d been bragging about doing work for the Vicomte but after he was scheduled to do the work, he suddenly didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Strange.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m hoping we can get him to talk about what he saw.”

“He’ll talk,” Steve said darkly. “As scared as he might be about this Lord Stane, he’ll have more pressing problems.”

Tony’s eyebrows flew up. “I’ve never seen this side of you, Brother Steve. I like it," he drawled. Natasha snorted while Steve’s cheeks grew ruddy, even though the determined look on his face never faded. Their food arrived and conversation died while they ate, and halfway through his stew Steve heard someone mention the Iron Cardinal. He raised his head, looking around in confusion, and realized that it had been the minstrel beginning a new song.

“ _With flashing eyes and a heavy hand,_

_The Iron Cardinal drove the tax men from this land_

_He takes a penny on a pound, but it all comes back around_

_No one goes hungry with His Grace in town.”_

Steve looked at Tony in disbelief. Tony was studiously looking at his eel pie, but his ears were a bright red while Natasha was tapping her toes to the song, grinning widely.

“Are there many songs about the Iron Cardinal?” Steve asked, suddenly realizing why Tony had been so shifty a few days ago about where Steve had heard about the Iron Cardinal. 

“Oh, yes, he’s very popular,” Natasha said with relish. “If you give the bard some coin, he will sing all that you care to hear.” Steve’s hand went to his belt automatically, but he forgot he didn’t have a coin purse because Tony had been handling the finances all trip. He held out a hand to Tony for some money and earned himself a dirty glare. Then to his surprise, a coin appeared in his hand and Natasha winked at him.

“Ask for the one about the King’s mistress,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over Tony’s protests. “That one’s my favorite.”

Steve waited for the current song to be over before he asked for a new one; the singer bowed as the front of the audience cheered at the request, and immediately starting picking out a tune that was fast and energetic and had the crowd clapping along. As he turned to head back to the table, his heart leapt when he saw a stranger sitting in his seat. He made his way back through the crowd as fast as he dared, hoping that the man had word of Bucky.

The stranger jumped when Steve dragged up an empty chair sat down next to him, eyes darting around the tavern nervously. Natasha snapped her fingers to get his attention again. “We already promised you protection against Lord Stane,” she reminded him. “Now you have to tell us what you know.”

The man hesitated for a moment, clearly weighing the risks, before he scooted closer to be heard over the crowd. “It’s not much. A week ago I was called up to the castle to do some work, but they wouldn’t say what it was until I got there. They had emptied out one of the cellars and wanted me to put in a pair of bolts and rings in the wall, then reinforce the door with better hinges and a stronger latch.”

“He was building a prison cell,” Steve said. The man shrugged and ducked his head; _yes, but you didn’t hear it from me._ “In one of the cellars?”

“Probably the root cellar, I can’t see him giving up his wine cellar,” Tony said musingly, eyes distant. The man fidgeted at the table for a little while Tony thought, and finally Tony’s gaze refocused on the man. “You can go. Thank you.”

Natasha slid an engraved disk with some sort of symbol on it across the table to the ironworker, who made it disappear before he slipped out the door of the tavern into the night. “So, you know where we’re going?” She asked Tony. 

Tony nodded, looking grim. “It’s not going to be easy. Especially if he has guards.”

“He shouldn’t be expecting you – I’ve been having your men laying false trails up and down the coast. Hopefully he’ll be complacent; after all, no one suspects that he may have been making a play for the relics.”

“We do it tonight, right?” Steve said, leaning forward. “It’s not going to get any easier if we wait.”

“If I say no, would you do it by yourself?” Tony said dryly, and Steve didn’t disagree. “We need to make a plan, though. Not here, though. We’ll finish eating first.”

“Plus, Steve has to hear the rest of mistress song,” Natasha added, dodging Tony’s kick under the table.

Tonight Steve and Tony had little appreciation for the bright light of the gibbous moon, which lit up the pale stone of the Vicomte de Chatellerault’s castle like a beacon in the night. It wasn’t a very large castle but it was built for war and well-maintained with a keep, towers in each corner and ramparts; the walls had high narrow windows for archers and the approach to the castle was clear of trees or underbrush that would hide someone’s approach. 

“Well?” Tony said after they had been studying the castle for a while. “Got any ideas?” This was clearly going to be one of the hardest parts because they risked being spotted by sharp-eyed night watchman and would be vulnerable to archer fire.

“Go in slow, get out fast,” Steve said. “Even grass is more cover than we had in the desert.” While waiting for the late hours of the night, they’d bought lighter colored cloaks and Steve showed them how to use dirt and ash to make the cloaks mottled enough to confuse the eye at a distance. They hid the horses as close as they dared then started making their way across the open expanse agonizingly slowly, hearts pounding as they jumped at every noise, expecting to be discovered any minute. But there was no outcry, and eventually they were able to take cover in the shadowed lee of one of the towers. “Ok, now what?” Steve whispered, craning his neck up to look at the window far above their heads. “Throw the grappling hook?”

“Not quite. Think you can hold me on your shoulders?”

Steve nodded, and held out a hand as Tony put a foot on his thigh and climbed up to stand on his shoulders, bracing himself on the wall while Steve wrapped his hands around Tony’s ankles for balance. “Can you reach?”

“No, but I can,” Natasha said. She had unspooled the rope and hung the grappling hook from her shoulder. “Ready?”

“What-” Steve braced himself quickly for the extra weight as Natasha took a running leap towards him, jumping lightly from his thigh to scramble up to Tony’s shoulders. Steve grimaced for a moment as he bore the weight of both of them, then there was the slight scrape of metal against stone and the extra weight was gone.

“Ready,” Natasha whispered down, then Tony’s weight was gone as well as he climbed up and into the window. Steve waited until he got a thumbs up from the window before he climbed up as well, rolling so he landed lightly in what turned out to be a sitting room.

“Follow me,” Tony whispered, voice almost noiseless. They removed their shoes so they wouldn’t be heard as they crept through the dark corridors, having wrapped their weapons in cloth to dampen all noise. Tony led them by memory and prayed that Stane hadn’t done any redecorating since the last time they’d been here, feeling their way around furniture and through doorways that were barely discernible patches of black on black. It wasn’t until they were approaching the cellars, when the light from outside vanished completely, that Tony took the risk of lighting a candle.

“This should be it,” he said, stopping in front of a stout wooden door. Sure enough, the hinges and latch were new, as was the lock keeping the door closed. Natasha lit a candle of her own and vanished around the corner while Tony handed Steve an iron crow. When Steve raised it to smash the lock open, Tony grabbed his arm and shook his head. “The hinges will be easier and make less noise,” he said, and Steve nodded sheepishly.

It was only the work of a moment before the hinges were out and Tony and Steve had to catch the heavy wooden door as it sagged to keep it from hitting the floor. They leaned it carefully against the wall, then Steve took the candle and headed into the cellar. “Bucky?” he whispered as he crept inside; the cellar was deep, and the front part was still piled over with bags of onions, potatoes, carrots, and who knew what else. But in the back a large space had been cleared away, and after a moment the flickering candlelight revealed dark haired man slumped against the wall, hands chained above his head.

Tony took the candle while Steve knelt next to the man, shaking him gently to wake him up. The man’s head lolled, and Tony sucked in a breath at the purple bruises and dried blood there. Tony thought he’d been wearing dark rags, but as he moved closer he realized that Barnes' clothes were dark with blood and dirt, not dye, and his gaze traveled down to see that the man’s feet were dark and misshapen, clearly broken. There was no way Barnes was getting out of here under his own power.

It took a while for Barnes to wake up, but eventually his swollen eyelids opened a slit. “Steve?” he mumbled around a split lip. “No, you can’t…get out, go away,” he said, shaking his head, chains rattling as he tried to reach out and push Steve away. "Run, you have to run-"

“We’re getting you out of here, Buck,” Steve said grimly, and put the iron crow against the rings holding the shackles to the wall. Tony stooped to calm Barnes while Steve snarled with effort above him, knuckles white on the pry bar until the ring finally snapped and Barnes’s hands dropped to the floor. He cried out with pain at the movement and Steve flinched.

“You’re going to have to carry him,” Tony said, moving the candle to Barnes’s feet so that Steve could see what he’d seen. Steve nodded grimly and gingerly gathered Barnes into his arms, face going white at his pained whimpers.

"What about the relics?" 

"I doubt Barnes would still be alive if Stane had the relics, so we're just going to have to hope they are safe until Barnes can tell us where they are," Tony said shortly. He didn't have to put a hand on Barnes's head to know he was out of his mind with a fever, probably from infection. He turned to leave and was brought up short when Natasha appeared in the doorway.

“Guys, we’ve got a situation,” she said.

“So do we,” Tony said, gesturing to Barnes. “He can’t ride by himself like this. I’m not even sure he can sit on a horse.”

“Mine is still bigger,” she said, and as they frowned she led them to another part of the castle. “Your comment earlier about the Vicomte giving up his wine cellar made me wonder why he was turning his cellar into a prison in the first place. This not a large castle but even small castles have dungeons to hold men before they are delivered to the King’s justice, right? So why not hold Barnes there?”

Tony made a face; that should have occurred to him, too. He’d played in Stane’s dungeon often as a child while his father and Lord Stane had business meetings in his study two floors above. “So what did you find?”

“I found a bunch of Steve Rodgers.” She held up the candle to the iron gate that secured the dungeon, showing half a dozen men assembled inside, staring at them with baffled hope. They were all tall and broad-shouldered with blonde hair and blue eyes. In fact, they all would have easily matched a description of Steve to someone who had never seen Steve before. "What would you call them? A herd? A flock?"

“Oh my God,” Steve said in shock. It wasn’t that he hadn’t believed Tony all those times that he’d said people were searching for him, but it was another thing to see the evidence of that before his eyes. “We’re rescuing them too, right? We can't leave them here.”

Tony stared at the prisoners, mouth a grim line. “Yes,” he said after a long moment, clearly reluctant. “If we don’t Stane is just going to turn them all over to the King as fugitive Templars.” He pulled the iron crow back out to try to open the door, but Natasha hip checked him to the side.

“I got this,” she said, inserting what looked like a long, thin needle into the lock of the door. There was a minute of tiny clicking noises as her eyebrows drew together in concentration, then the lock finally popped open.

“We can't bring you with us,” Tony warned the men as the gate swung open silently, well oiled. "We don't have the horses for you all. I’ll point the way to the stables and we’re opening the gate to escape, but the rest is up to you. God be with you.” The men nodded their understanding and then the whole procession was heading up the stairs, blowing out the candles as they left the pitch darkness of the lower floors.

Their luck finally ran out as they were heading for the bailey; a servant came out of one of the rooms heading for the garderobe, and the light from his candle lit up the whole guilty-looking lot of them. He gave a shout of surprise before Tony could silence him, and the shout roused the other sleepers in the servants’ quarters. Tony shoved the shouter back into the room and slammed the door closed, putting his back against it as they started pounding on it. “Run,” he said. “I’ll hold the door as long as possible.”

Steve looked like he wanted to argue, but Barnes was mumbling deliriously in his arms and Natasha was pulling on his elbow, so with a lingering glance backwards he followed her through the halls. Tony scanned the room for something to bar the door, aware that he couldn’t wait too long or he’d be trapped here, and there was no way to stop them all once he left his post at the door. Then a thought occurred to him. “I will give you all a sol apiece if you stay in this room for a hundred count,” he called through the door, and after a moment the pounding stopped. Tony smiled, blessing Stane’s pinchpenny ways, and took a handful of coins from his pocket and kicked them under the door before sprinting to catch up to Steve and Natasha. They were stopped for a moment in the bailey while Natasha opened the gate’s complicated set of tumblers, set deep into the stonework of the ramparts to prevent forced entry.

On the other side of the castle, Tony heard an alarm bell ring; as he’d feared, the escaping knights had alerted the watchmen guarding the stables, who would soon be waking the entire castle. He closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness for using those men as a distraction, then followed Natasha and Steve out the gate.

They made it back to their horses, hidden in the closest copse of trees, without raising any new alarms. Barnes had woken briefly as they’d tried to situate him on the horse, and Steve had been forced to put a hand over his mouth to stifle his screams of pain before he passed out again. Eventually they tied him to Steve’s back, wrapping his arms around Steve’s middle before lashing his hands to the pommel of the saddle. Tony prayed again, this time that Barnes would survive the race to Tony’s estate two days away, and then they kicked their horses into a run.


	8. The Safe House

They pushed the horses as hard as they dared, riding through the night until the sun crested the trees. Steve stayed on his horse’s back the whole time, even as they rested and watered them, because he was afraid that if he got Bucky off the horse he wouldn’t be able to get him back on it again.

“I don’t know if he can go on like this much longer,” Steve said. Bucky was fiery hot against his back, making him sweat, and Steve could feel and hear every flinch and moan of pain as the ride jostled his injuries.

“We just have to get as far as Loudoun,” Tony said, petting Friday apologetically on the nose for pushing her so hard as he fed her an apple. “Then we’ll be on my father’s lands.”

“And Stane won’t follow us there?”

Tony started to speak and hesitated. “The people there will be loyal to the Duke of Anjou,” he said after a moment. “We will be able to find help there, and perhaps a wagon for us to transport him to my manor.” Steve thought with regret of the wagon that they’d left in Chatellerault, along with all of the belongings that they couldn’t carry with them. Their belongings were left in the care of the anonymous farmer who had let them use his farm and the wagon left as payment. 

“How much farther?”

“A few hours.”

Steve nodded tiredly, and then they were off again.

As the neared Loudoun, Tony took the lead as Natasha fell back to watch their rear. They kept to the outskirts of the city until he came to a charming cottage surrounded by a garden so robust that it threatened to overtake the path to the front door.

An older man and woman came outside as Tony slid off his horse. “Lord Antoine?” the lady said. “What a surprise! What are you-”

“Ana, our friend is in dire need of your help,” he said, gesturing to Barnes after he embraced her. When Ana saw Barnes’s condition, her eyes widened and she called out for her maidservant to gather warm water, bandages, and willow bark as Tony and Steve lowered Barnes to the ground. Natasha hung back, holding the horses as Steve helped the women take Barnes inside and the older man pulled Tony into a hug.

“Lord Antoine, when will you stop bringing home strays?” The man scolded gently as Tony laughed. He put his hands on Tony’s shoulders and studied him, taking in his short hair and monk’s robes with a look of exasperation. “What mischief are you up to now?”

“Just the usual, Edwin,” Tony said ruefully. “We are also in need of concealment. Can we stay here until he’s stable enough that I can take him to the manor?”

“Of course! Stay as long as you need, you are always welcome.” Edwin patted Tony once on his shoulder. “Come on inside, you all look exhausted.”

“In a moment, Edwin,” Tony said, glancing at Natasha. Edwin nodded in understanding and went inside to give them some privacy.

“I’m going to muddy the trail,” Natasha said when they were alone. “I’ll take the horses and head to Paris, make sure no one is following you.”

“Bless you,” Tony said sincerely, pulling her into a swift hug. “I owe you a raise.”

“Just take care of yourself,” she said, squeezing him tightly before releasing him. “If Rodgers hurts you, he’ll be feeding the ravens before nightfall.”

Despite everything, Tony barked out a laugh at that. “Hurting my feelings isn’t a capital crime, Natasha,” he said. “Stane is the enemy right now, not Rodgers.” When Natasha nodded reluctantly, with a martial look still in her eyes, he changed the subject. “I’ll send updates when I can about Barnes, and you let me know what's going on in Paris when you get there.”

Tony watched as she climbed back onto her horse with a tired sigh, leading the other two by their reins, finally turning away when she was out of sight. Inside, he found Steve standing awkwardly outside the door of Ana and Edwin’s spare bedroom, watching while Ana and her servant bustled around Barnes. Barnes’ filthy clothes were already in shredded rags at the foot of the bed and a kettle was starting to burble over the fireplace in the kitchen.

“He’s in good hands here,” Tony said as he came up to join Steve. “Ana is the best healer I know.”

“I had to, being around you when you were young,” Ana called out, flashing Tony a grin even as her hands were busy poking and prodding Barnes’ injuries.

“Ana and Edwin were my family’s butler and housekeeper when I was growing up,” Tony explained. “They practically raised me. When they retired, I built them this home.”

“And then he proceeds to not visit nearly as often as he should. Tiffany, will you please go to the drying room and bring me garlic, willow bark, the gentian, the plantain, and the cinquefoil?” The maid dipped her head and brushed by Steve, offering him a shy smile as he stepped back to give her room to pass.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Steve offered. It was clearly paining him to not be hovering around Bucky as well; he had the air of a brooding hen being denied her chick.

“When he wakes, he’ll need something to build his strength back up. The best thing is bone broth so someone needs to go to the butcher and get soup bones,” Ana said without pausing her examinations. The grim set to her mouth was worrisome. “The sooner the better, because they’ll need to boil for some time.”

“I’ll go,” Edwin said. “You two look like you’ve been through hell, if you pardon my language,” he said bluntly. “Also, you’re two strangers, and you don’t need that kind of attention right now. I’ll take the pony and cart and be back soon with no questions asked.”

Tony opened his mouth to protest, but he knew Edwin was right. He did, however, pull some money from his purse and press it into Edwin’s hand. “Go ahead and buy anything else you think you’ll need,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry about having three extra mouths to feed.”

Once Edwin had left, Steve seemed to realize for the first time that Natasha was gone.

“She’s covering our tracks,” Tony said shortly when he saw Steve looking around for her. “She took the horses to try to lead any pursuers in the wrong direction.”

“So what now?” Steve asked. “Are we safe?”

“We will be safer when we can get to my home. When Barnes can be moved, we will get a wagon and take him the rest of the way.” Tony eyed Steve critically and realized that Edwin was right; Steve looked like he was dead on his feet and Tony probably looked just as bad, but he knew neither of them would be able to sleep until they had news about Barnes. “Come. I’ll get us something to eat and then we’ll stay out of Ana’s way so she’s not tempted to throw us in the soup pot as well.”

The sun was well past its zenith when Ana found them outside silently feeding crumbs of bread to the chickens that clucked and scratched at the ground near their feet.

“He’s sleeping soundly now,” Ana announced, startling the chickens. “His injuries are numerous and severe, but the infection had not progressed very far and that is always the most dangerous. You may see him now, if you want,” she added, and Steve was on his feet before she finished talking.

Tony stood more slowly as Steve disappeared inside, knowing that Steve would want a few minutes alone with his friend. “Is he going to be okay?” he asked quietly, concerned by the shadow of worry in Ana’s eyes.

“He will live if the infection does not worsen,” she said after a moment of hesitation. “But the damage to his hands and feet…they are difficult bones to set properly.”

Tony understood what Ana wasn’t saying. Even if Barnes lived, he might never walk properly again, or hold a sword. “Is there anything to be done?”

“Pray,” she said, smiling impishly when Tony rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll try,” he promised, kissing her on the cheek. “Now, is there anything I can help you with until Edwin gets back?”

Steve rushed inside only to slow as he approached Bucky’s bed. He wasn’t sure if Bucky looked better or worse now that he was clean and bandaged; the white of the bandages against his skin brought the sheer number of his injuries into sharp relief, and without the dirt on his skin it was easier to see the mottled blue-purple of his bruises. He hovered over Bucky’s bed for a moment, before he knelt and brought a hand up to stroke over his hair, the crown of Bucky’s head being one of the few places that didn’t seem to be injured. 

“You’re safe now, Bucky,” he said softly. The relief he felt to see Bucky again, to see him alive and breathing if not terribly well, was dizzying. And he owed it all to Tony, he knew; without Tony's resources, illicit or not, he never would have found Bucky in time, if at all. Never would have successfully carried him out of the castle, or found a place where someone could tend to his wounds without fear of discovery. Even if he managed to make up for treating Tony so poorly all this time, how could he ever repay him for saving his best friend's life?

After a moment of studying Bucky’s swollen and discolored features as he slept, Steve turned so he could sit on the floor and lean against the bed, resting his head close to Bucky’s. Behind him, he could hear Bucky’s deep and even breathing, glad that he no longer sounded like he was in pain. “I’ve missed you so much,” he confessed softly. “I’ve screwed things up so much without you." Bucky had always been good about keeping Steve from making too big of an ass of himself and saw things much more clearly than Steve himself could. Steve scrubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion suddenly a weight on his shoulders. "Though, in all fairness, I didn’t get captured by a madman and tortured, so it looks like you’re not doing so well without me either. From now on, we're in this together, you hear me?” In the quiet of the room, he bowed his head to pray and didn’t realize that he had fallen asleep until he was startled awake sometime later by the sound of someone making noise above him. He sat up swiftly when he realized that it was Bucky waking up and trying to move.

“Buck? Stay still,” Steve said, throwing off the blanket as got up. “You’re injured, you don’t need to be moving.”

“Thirsty,” Bucky croaked, and Ana must have heard them talking from the other room because she hurried in with a warm tisane, steam curling from the clay mug.

“Here, my friend,” Ana said as Steve helped Bucky sit up so that she could carefully bring the mug to Bucky’s mouth for him to sip carefully, since his hands were still too thickly bandaged to hold anything. “There,” she said when he finished. “I imagine you’re hungry, too.” When Bucky nodded, she stood. “I will bring you dinner."

“Where?” Bucky managed, voice hoarse.

“We are with some of Tony’s friends,” Steve said. “That is, Cardinal Stark,” he corrected. “You’re safe.”

Bucky closed his eyes in relief for a moment before they flew open again. “Is Stark here?”

“Yes, why? Would you like to speak to him?”

“Are relics safe?”

Steve’s stomach dropped. “What? You don’t have–“ Steve stopped himself, obviously Bucky didn’t _have_ the relics. “You don’t know where the relics are?”

“What?” Tony said from the doorway, holding a bowl of Ana’s bone broth. “What do you mean he doesn’t know where the relics are?”

Bucky was too weak to explain, breath short from the exertion of speaking so much already, so the discussion was tabled as Steve patiently spooned the broth into his mouth; when the bowl was finally empty, Bucky lay back against the bed with a long sigh, mumbling something but already falling asleep again from the herbs in Ana’s tisane. Tony stared at him with bemusement as he slept, then shook his head and stood. “I wonder why Bucky would think that _I_ had the relics,” he said as Steve followed him into the kitchen where the smell of food made Steve’s stomach rumble loudly. “Unless he tried to send them to me?”

“But why would he smuggle them out of Paris, only to try to send them back to Paris?”

“And why me?” Tony sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Hopefully next time he’ll stay awake for longer and tell us what in God's name he did with those blasted things.”

“Blasphemy," Edwin said reprovingly, rapping the back of Tony's hand with the wooden ladle before spooning stew into bowls. "And what things?” Edwin asked. “Now would be a good time to tell us what’s going on.”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what’s really going on,” Tony admitted as he helped Ana set the table for dinner. “There’s a lot of rumors and speculation, but all we know for certain is that Stane is involved, and he seems to be after some relics that the Templars brought back from the Holy Land. Relics that were last seen leaving Paris in the hands of the man currently lying on the bed in there.”

“Oh dear. Please tell me you haven’t gotten involved with that Templar mess,” Ana said. “We’ve had criers in the town calling for people to turn in fugitive Templars.”

“Really?” It took a force of will for Steve to keep his face blank and not look at Tony, to not let his voice betray his sudden worry. “Turn them in to who? Does the king have men stationed in Loudoun?”

“No, to the Duke.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me my father is at the manor right now,” Tony said with dismay as he sat down at the table. “He’s usually in Paris this time of year.”

“From what I hear, he’s been in residence for a couple of weeks now,” Edwin said. “That’s why I was a little surprised to hear you say that you would be going there as soon as your friend can be moved.”

“Is that a problem?” Steve said with a frown. 

“It does make things more complicated. My father and I don’t get along, to put it mildly.” Tony pulled his bowl of stew closer and sighed, shoulders slumped. “I would pick another estate, but the hunting lodges are all going to be closed up and are farther away, and I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary because I don’t want to pull you two into this.” 

Edwin reached across the table and put his hand on Tony’s, squeezing it. “Stay as long as you want. Whatever you need, my boy, we are here for you. You should know that by now.”

Tony stared at Edwin’s hand over his own and swallowed thickly; Steve saw a flash of vulnerability in his eyes as they studied Edwin’s swollen knuckles and pale skin, spotted with age. “I, uh,” Tony cleared his throat to disguise the wobble in his voice. “Thank you,” he finally managed with a tired smile. “I appreciate that. But I can handle it.” With a satisfied nod, Edwin squeezed Tony's hand and and returned to his dinner.

* * *

Bucky had a restless, feverish night that night, waking Steve up mumbling in his sleep and trying to move. Steve soothed him, sponging sweat from his face and chest when he was hot and tucking blankets around him when he shivered, spooning the tisane and broth past his lips when he was awake enough to swallow. He tried to talk to Bucky about the relics but he was only speaking nonsense, so Steve stopped asking. Eventually Bucky fell back to sleep, the heated flush of his face finally fading as his fever broke, and Steve lay gratefully back down on his pallet.

When daylight woke him from his slumber again, he heard voices talking softly outside the room. Bucky was still fast asleep so Steve crept out of the room, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Poor dear,” Ana said sympathetically as he came into the kitchen. “Did he have a rough night?”

Steve nodded as he sat down at the table with her while Edwin stirred a pot of porridge over the fire. “I think his fever broke, though, so we should be able to get some answers next time he wakes up,” he said, resting his head in his hands. He must have been up with Bucky longer than he had thought, to be so tired today. “Where’s Tony?”

“He’s hitching up our cart to take you and your friend to Chateau d’Angers.” She sat back in her chair while Edwin passed out bowls and spooned porridge in them, then set out dried fruit and honey on the table before sitting down as well. "I checked in on you both while you were sleeping and I told Lord Antoine that I thought your friend is well enough to move on. As long as you don't force him atop a horse again."

“Already? I thought…” Steve shook his head and sighed. Last night, in the dark hours of morning as he sat vigil over Bucky, he had decided wanted to start helping, to stop being a burden that Tony dragged across the kingdom while trying to take care of Bucky and relocate the relics, but he could hardly do that if Tony insisted on making all the decisions by himself. “I’m sure it’s for the best,” he said instead. “I would have helped, though.”

“Our Antoine has always had a hard time being still,” she said. “Especially if there was something that needed doing.”

Steve made a noise of agreement at that, stirring his bowl idly. Pieces of fruit would emerge briefly before sinking back into the porridge, and to Steve’s tired mind it seemed like a good metaphor for Tony, how Steve could get glimpses of the person he was beneath all the masks before he disappeared again. He desperately wanted to get to know Tony, to understand him, but he felt the chance to slipping from his fingers; once at Chateau d’Angers, Tony would become Lord Stark, farther from Steve’s reach than even Cardinal Stark was. And what help could he offer Tony to find the relics, other than caring for Bucky until he could wake up and tell them where they were? Steve sighed and pushed the thoughts away, setting himself to eating though he had little appetite. He finished his bowl of porridge as quickly as possible and stood. “I’ll take him breakfast so it doesn’t get cold,” he offered, refilling his bowl for Tony.

When he got out to the small shed that served as the barn he found the horse, a big, sturdy draft horse, already hitched to the cart, its head dwarfing Tony’s as it nosed around him for treats. Tony laughed as it almost knocked him over and gave up the carrot he’d been hiding. Steve paused for a moment, watching, before the bowl in his hands reminded him of his errand.

“Good morning,” he said, feeling awkward when he saw Tony’s good spirits become guarded, like a banked fire. “I didn’t know you were already finished, I brought you breakfast,” he added, holding up the bowl awkwardly. “Can I do anything?”

Tony stared at the bowl for a moment before taking it. “I hope Barnes is ready to be moved today. We need to get someplace safer.”

“Have you decided where we will go?" Steve stroked the horse's jaw to have something to do with his hands. "Ana mentioned Chateau d’Angers, but that’s where your father is, right?”

Tony shrugged as he ate. “I’ll just have to beard the lion in its den,” he said, and Steve didn’t believe the affected casualness but he didn’t say anything. That wasn’t a battle he could help Tony with. “You should go get him ready,” Tony continued. “Ana was going to prepare a tisane for us to give him while we travel.”

Steve took that for the dismissal it was and returned to the house. Bucky barely stirred as Steve and Edwin lifted him and put him as gently as they could in the back of the cart, trying to take care not to jostle his injuries. He looked so small laying there, Steve thought with dismay. So fragile.

“He’ll be fine,” Ana whispered as she handed him a blanket and a pillow. He tucked both around Bucky, both to keep him comfortable and to hide the bandages so they wouldn’t draw attention. He went back inside to get the last of the supplies, mostly food and water, and tripped over his own feet when he saw Tony. Tony had shed his coarse brown monk’s robes and was wearing only his braes, and Steve's mouth went dry as he watched the lean muscles of Tony’s back move under his smooth, dusky skin as he pulled on the black robes of a priest instead. Tony smoothed out the robes so they fell in straight lines to the floor and adjusted the collar. As he turned around Steve realized he had shaved, the scruffy, half-grown beard of the past few days having been tamed into a sleek goatee.

“You…” Steve said, staring helplessly. The black fabric made Tony’s features seem downright saturnine, with his warm brown eyes and dark hair. The goatee framed Tony’s mobile mouth, which was right now turned downward in a frown, making him seem stern in a way that made an entirely inappropriate thrill go up Steve’s spine. Apparently, it didn’t matter what Tony wore - the rich raiment of a Cardinal, the homespun robes of a monk, or now, the black cassock of a priest - he had the power to drive Steve out of his wits.

“What?” Tony said defensively. He smoothed a hand over the robes self-consciously. “People might be looking for a pair of monks that ran hell for leather from Chatellerault, I thought we should change.”

“You’re so…” Steve felt the strong need to go take a walk to get a grip on the strength of the feelings making his chest feel tight, but he was also rooted to the floor as Tony lifted his chin.

“What? Deceptive? Two-faced?” When Steve just stood there, tongue-tied, Tony scowled. “Just say it, Rogers-”

“Handsome,” Steve managed, feeling his face get hot and his heart race. Tony reared back like he’d been slapped, blinking in surprise. They stared at each other speechlessly for a long moment, then Steve said, face still flaming, “I’ll just,” and gestured with his chin towards the bedroom that Bucky had been staying in, even though he didn’t have the slightest idea what he would do when he got there.

“Right,” Tony said with a nod, and stared down at the clothes he discarded as if wondering what they were doing on the floor, then stooped over to pick them up as Steve passed him to go to the bedroom.

In the bedroom and out of Tony’s sight, Steve raked his hands through his too-long hair, suddenly realizing that they were shaking. He was still shocked by his own daring at saying the words aloud but also by how good it felt. It felt like he’d been at confession, like pulling out a splinter or lancing a wound. He felt lighter, freer, and, despite everything, was struck by the sudden urge to laugh.

“Are you ready?” Ana said from the doorway, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Lord Antoine is already in the cart.”

“Uh, yes,” Steve said. “I was just making sure we weren’t forgetting anything.” Even though Tony studiously avoided meeting his eyes as he climbed into the back of the cart with Bucky and didn't say a word, Steve felt better than he had in days. 

* * *

With each mile that passed, Tony’s stomach tied itself into tighter and tighter knots. The silent but unforgettable presence of Steve behind him was like a loose tooth. He was sorely tempted to turn to study the surprising, frustrating man, but was afraid it would start a conversation and he had no idea what would come out of his mouth right now if he tried to talk. Steve's startling confession had hit like a lightning bolt from a clear blue sky, sending Tony's thoughts scattering like a flock of startled birds and distracting him at a time when he desperately needed to focus. Focus on the relics, focus on Hydra, on what he was going to say to his father. He and his father hadn’t exchanged words since a blistering encounter in Paris where they’d almost come to blows. It had only been the fact that his father was exceptionally drunk that had kept it from getting worse; Tony had too much pride to fight someone so inebriated. He had no idea what brought Howard to Chateau d’Angers this time of year, when the social season in Paris was beginning. A scandal? Illness? Somehow an event of this importance had escaped Tony’s attention, and the lack of knowledge was another weight on his mind. 

Tony suppressed a sigh at his thoughts and rolled his neck on his shoulders, trying to ease the tension there. Edwin's horse shook its head with irritation, and Tony realized he'd been tightening up on the reins without noticing. 

"Are you okay?" Steve said from behind him. "You've been sighing a lot."

Tony barely resisted the impulse to sigh again. "I'm fine," he said shortly. He really should warn Steve about the family drama that he was about to walk into, but the last thing Tony felt like doing right now was talking about his father.

"Is it your father?"

Tony scowled. "In part," he admitted grudgingly. Steve waited a moment, clearly inviting him to continue, but Tony stubbornly kept his mouth closed.

"I never knew my father," Steve said when he realized Tony wasn't going to say anything. "He left for the Crusades before I was born and died in battle." 

_Lucky,_ Tony's bitter heart wanted to say, but he knew that growing up without a father wasn't easy either. _Was no father better than a bad father?_ Tony mused sardonically. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, wondering what Steve was getting at. If he said anything about gratitude, Tony would not be responsible for his actions.

"I always thought that men measure themselves, for better or worse, against their fathers," Steve said thoughtfully. Tony risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Steve was scratching his jaw, staring at the road behind them. "I can't help but think that my father dying in a Crusade is why I agreed to become a knight."

Tony snorted. "Well, my father is definitely why I joined the church," Tony said, lip curling. But Steve had a point. Tony had clawed his way to the top of the Church so that his father had to choke on his success, visibly gloating every time his father had to kiss his ring when he attended services at Notre Dame. An entirely unchristian sentiment, Tony knew, but he never claimed to be a good Christian. 

"Is he why you created the Iron Cardinal?" 

The unexpected question broke Tony's resentful reverie. "No," he said slowly. He had never thought about it, but the Iron Cardinal had grown out of an impulse entirely unrelated to his father. "No, that was...an accident, really."

Steve barked out a laugh. "You built an illicit criminal empire by _accident?_ How?" 

Tony smiled at the memory. "It's not a story I can tell on my own," he said. "You'll have to wait until we are with Sister Natasha and Sister Virginia." Steve was silent for just a moment too long, giving Tony enough time to realize what he'd said and curse himself. _I'll help you find your friend and then you can go fuck yourself,_ he'd told Steve in a fit of hurt anger. Now, not even two days later he was talking like there was some kind of future where they were still on speaking terms. _The man gives you one compliment and apparently everything's forgiven,_ Tony scolded himself. 

"I look forward to it," Steve said softly, and Tony just hunched his shoulders and didn't respond. 

Eventually, inevitably, Edwin’s horse brought them to the gates of Tony's manor, its thick walls and crenelated towers reflecting in the broad waters of the river Maine. Few in the city spared them a glance as they wound their way through the city and up to the gates of the Chateau. “I am Lord Antoine Stark,” Tony said when the manor guards stopped them. “I am here to see my father.” The guards, recognizing him despite the cassock, waved them through without comment. Strangely, the one on the left gave him a sympathetic look as they passed, which made Tony's eyebrows draw together as he urged the horse forward, suddenly getting a bad feeling unrelated to the general dread of seeing his father. As he drove up to the front door of the main house a groom came up to take the reins; he absently ordered the man to take the cart, along with Steve and Barnes, around to the chapel that also served as the infirmary as he climbed the stairs to the front door.

“Lord Stark,” the footman said as he opened the front door, clearly surprised and strangely, dismayed, to see him. “We, ah, we didn’t expect you so soon.”

“You were expecting me?” Tony said with a frown. The bad feeling grew, turning into a rock in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, yes,” the footman said, stepping back to let Tony inside. As soon as he set foot over the threshold, Tony noticed the yards of black cloth shrouding the mirrors inside the front hall. Blinking rapidly, stunned, Tony’s eyes fell to the black armband fastened to the sleeve of the footman’s uniform, then flew up to meet the footman’s eyes. “We sent a messenger yesterday to Paris, my lord. As soon as it happened.”

“As soon as what happened?” Tony asked, still staring at the black hangings. The steward, Edwin’s replacement, was coming down the hall, and the footman bowed gratefully and took a step back, clearly glad to be off the hook for what was coming. “What happened?” He repeated to the steward.

“There’s been a terrible accident, Your Grace,” he said with a deep bow. “The Duke- ”

"I'm so sorry, Antoine," a deep, familiar voice said from the top of the stairs. Tony glanced up and his blood ran cold as he watched Lord Stane coming towards him, his heavyset face arranged in a look of sorrow. "He was thrown from his horse and killed instantly. There was nothing I could do."


	9. Lord Stane

“Lord Stane,” Tony managed after a moment, hoping that his panic wasn't showing on his face, acutely aware of everyone's eyes on him. He couldn’t think of what to say; his thoughts spun crazily between _killed instantly_ and the excruciating awareness that he’d apparently brought Steve and Barnes right into the lion’s den. It took every bit of his self control not to look behind him and see if the pair were still visible through the open door. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you, but given the circumstances," he said, gesturing to the funereal gloom of the hall and stepping further inside so the footman could close the door behind him, "I hope you'll forgive me when I say that the first thing I want to do right now is get a drink. Could you please join me in the study and tell me exactly what happened?” 

“Of course.” Stane rested an avuncular hand on Tony’s shoulder, eyes sympathetic. “I know you must be in shock, this is very sudden.”

Tony nodded stiffly, skin crawling at Stane’s touch. “Please make yourself comfortable, I will be there shortly. I would like to wash up after my travels.” He exhaled silently with relief as Stane turned away, until his steward spoke up.

“Sir, what should we do about the two-”

“The mendicants in the cart are to be quarantined,” he interrupted brusquely. “Give them a bed then leave them alone. I will deal with them later.” When the steward nodded and turned to leave, Tony held his breath to see if Stane would say anything, but the man just continued down the hall. Even if he’d heard what the steward had said, the lives of two nobodies meant less than nothing to him - a trait he’d shared with Tony’s father, who had always been aggravated with what he’d called Tony’s soft heart. Tony sent a fervent prayer skyward that Stane’s arrogance would keep him blind to the fact that his prize was right under his nose, and another one that Steve would, for once, stay put and not draw attention to himself.

As Tony went up to his rooms - not the Duke's rooms, he couldn't handle _that_ just yet - the steward produced a basin and a pitcher of cool water. Tony gratefully washed his face and hands, raking his hands through his hair before drying them on a towel. He changed out of the black robes, aware that he was fortunate that Stane hadn’t noticed or cared enough to ask why he was wearing them. He hesitated for a moment over his scarlet robes of office or clothes befitting the son of a Duke – he needed to wear the best armor for the battle ahead of him, but he just realized he had no idea why Stane had been here with his father in the first place. He wished wryly for Steve’s chain mail and shield before settling on the rich linens and silks of a nobleman’s tunic and pants. With a sigh, he started to wave away the assistance of Howard’s page, a young boy that looked vaguely familiar, before a thought occurred to him.

“Did my father tell you why he had come here?” He asked as he let the page dress him.

“He didn’t really say, sir,” the boy said diffidently. “I just heard him say that he was here to meet with Lord Stane.”

“How long has Lord Stane been here?”

The page paused for a moment as he thought. “I believe it has been three days, my lord.”

Stane had left only a short while before they’d raided his castle. That explained why the rescue had gone relatively easily; everyone had been less alert without the lord in residence. But that still didn't explain what they had been doing here. Tony was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even realize that they were done until he noticed that the page was watching him expectantly. Glancing down, he saw that the boy had done a good job, securing the clothes without creasing the silk. “Excellent,” he said with an approving nod, and the boy beamed. Tony dismissed him with the sinking realization that the boy was now his responsibility, along with the steward, the butler, the footmen, the guards, every last servant down to the milkmaids and scullery boys.

He rubbed his temples against the impending headache and braced himself to sit down with Stane.

* * *

Steve took a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring out of the narrow window of the infirmary over the castle’s vegetable garden. It had been over an hour since they’d arrived and he still hadn’t seen or heard from Tony, and he was starting to get the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. A maid with a black band around her upper arm had brought food some time ago and scurried away without answering any of Steve’s questions, and now he was sorely tempted to go looking for answers. But instead he stayed at Bucky’s side, knowing that the first question Tony would have when he saw him again would be about the relics.

“Steve?”

“Bucky?” Steve turned from where he had been staring out of the window of the infirmary and sat down on the edge of Bucky’s bed. “I’m here. How are you feeling?”

Bucky grimaced. “Terrible. Where are we?”

“Tony’s home, Chateau d’Angers. You’re safe.” Steve reached for the water on the table and helped Bucky sit up enough to drink it.

“And the relics?” Bucky said after he downed half the cup. He was eyeing the food that the nurse had brought, so Steve set the cup down and picked up the plate.

“That’s what I was going to ask you. What did you do with them?”

“I sent them to the Iron Cardinal. To Cardinal Stark.”

Steve almost dropped the plate with surprise. “The Iron Cardinal?” he repeated. “You…you knew about him? The whole time?”

“Not the whole time, no.” Hands bandaged, Bucky paused expectantly, gesturing towards the plate with his chin, and Steve fed him a piece of chicken. “Didn’t think he was real for a long time, just a character from a bunch of songs,” he continued after he swallowed.

“Yeah, I’ve heard a few of the songs,” Steve said as he cut another piece of meat.

“But a bunch of people kept insisting that he was real. Then it seemed like I saw evidence of him everywhere. But I don’t think anyone would have guessed that the Iron Cardinal was an actual Cardinal - rumor was that he was called that because his clothes were constantly red from the blood of his enemies.”

That surprised a laugh out of Steve. He could just imagine the face Tony would make at that. He stabbed a potato with his eating knife and offered it to Bucky. “So how did you figure it out?”

“Wasn’t easy, but the Grand Master insisted on knowing who he was so I spent hours trying to uncover his identity. Talking to people, following his couriers, lurking outside places he was known to frequent. Very dull business, spying.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“Shortly before the dinner that we went to. That’s why I was so interested in going.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Steve said, trying not to feel betrayed.

“Steve, you had enough to say about the man without knowing that he was running a secret empire of spies and criminals,” Bucky said. He tried to reach for the water but grimaced when the movement pulled at his wounds, so Steve held the cup to Bucky's mouth to drink. “Especially since I couldn't figure out his motives. I wanted to get the measure of the man myself before I even said anything to the Grand Master.”

Steve was silent for a long time, thinking about that. “So why send the relics to him after you left Paris?”

“Believe me, that wasn’t my first plan. But I ran out of options and had some villains closing in on me, so I took the risk that he was the criminal with the heart of gold that all the songs made him out to be.” Bucky was in the middle of a bite of roasted barley when his eyes flew up to Steve’s. “Wait. He does have the relics, doesn’t he?”

“No. If you sent them to Paris, we haven’t been in Paris for some time. But I’m sure they are safe,” he added hurriedly when Bucky’s eyes widened with alarm. "Tony has people he trusts who-"

“No, you don’t understand,” Bucky said. He struggled to sit up and cursed in frustration when his weakened body betrayed him by not doing what he wanted it to. “They have to be secured. They have to be kept safe.”

“I know, I know,” Steve said soothingly, hoping Bucky didn’t injure himself. “Tony told me how important they are.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Bucky fell back against the sheets with exhaustion, eyes burning with intensity. “The relics are real. They have power.”

“What? What power?” Steve said with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Bucky made a noise of frustration. “You won’t believe me until you see it. You need to find them, _now.”_

* * *

“Thank you for waiting,” Tony said as he entered his study, polite smile firmly in place as he accepted the glass of wine Stane had waiting for him.

“No problem, I understand. I’m sorry to be the one to give you the news, but I’m glad I was able to be here for you,” Stane said as they sat. Tony noticed distantly that his father’s desk was untidy, like he’d been in the middle of working on something when he’d walked away from it. He tightened his jaw and turned away, sitting across from Stane.

“What happened?”

“There’s not much to tell, honestly,” Stane said, and Tony wondered how much honesty was in that _honestly._ “We were riding in the woods and Howard’s horse refused a jump, shying at the last minute. Howard was thrown and was killed in the fall.” He spread his hands, eyes sad. “He died instantly.”

“Why was Howard here at all? He’s usually in Paris this time of year.”

Stane blinked, clearly surprised by the question. “He didn’t say why he wanted to come here,” he said after a moment. “But when I found out he was in residence, I decided to come visit.”

Tony had to work to keep his eyebrows from going up. The page had said that a meeting with Stane was what had brought his father here out of season. Why would Stane lie about something so minor? Tony rubbed his eyes and thought furiously. “I’m having a hard time believing that he’s gone,” he said. “I suppose I have to track down his will and start reviewing his accounts, arrange for his funeral.”

“I can assure you that Howard’s accounts are in order, so that shouldn’t be difficult.” Stane sat back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his chest. “I helped him manage them so he could spend his time on more important matters. But since you brought up his will, I hope it’s not to forward to ask what you plan to do with the estate, given your position.” He eyed Tony’s clothes. “You _are_ still in the Church…?”

_Could Stane’s motives really be so banal?_ Tony wondered. Given everything, Tony had a hard time believing that Stane’s presence here was only about getting his hands on the duchy. “Is that why you were meeting with my father?” Tony asked idly, taking a sip of wine and then cradling the glass carelessly in his fingers. “Trying to get me disinherited?”

Stane’s eyebrows lowered and he frowned. “Nothing so base, my boy. But you know what happens to the line of succession with you in the Church.”

“I’m surprised Howard wasn’t able to dig up a distant cousin to take it. Though I suppose if he had, he would have made sure that I knew about it.” Tony honestly hadn’t put much thought about what would happen to the duchy and the attached land and assets when Howard died, mostly because he expected to have a few more years time before it became an issue. Traditionally, if a nobleman died without anyone to inherit, everything went to the crown; since Tony was a Cardinal, the lands would belong to the Church. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing, except that since the estate was outside of Paris, Tony wouldn’t be the one in charge of them and the idea of giving up control of his family’s ancestral estates was intolerable. “If Howard wasn’t so concerned about it, he shouldn’t have made me take my vows.”

“You know damn well that’s not what-” Stane stopped himself before he started an old argument anew. Tony watched with interest as the scowl on Stane’s face cleared and returned to the genial, avuncular smile from before, though this time it was seeming a little forced. “Well, what’s done is done. What I was trying to say, is that Howard and I were discussing the possibility of combining our estates. The title would no longer be in the Stark family, but at least the estates wouldn’t go to a stranger.”

“And you would go from a Vicomte to a Duke,” Tony said, amused despite himself at Stane’s ambition. “Which is not an insignificant detail.”

“Would you be better pleased by the alternative?”

Tony studied Stane thoughtfully over the rim of his wine glass as he took another sip. “And what if I told you I had an heir?”

He looked up to see Stane’s reaction and saw with satisfaction that the man was speechless. “ _You_ have an- impossible,” he sputtered. “No child you sired while in the Church could possibly inherit.”

“Care to wager on that?” Tony raised an eyebrow. “I think you and I both know that an exception to the rules can always be made for the right price.”

Now the amiable façade gave way to a narrow-eyed look of calculation. “ _Do_ you have an heir?”

“Perhaps,” Tony said with a shrug, and he knew that Stane knew what he meant: maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but it didn’t matter because he could if he really wanted to. A likely-looking boy and some forged paperwork, a few bribed witnesses, and a hidden Stark heir could be produced from nothing. “I wasn’t always in the church, you know.” He took another sip of wine as the silence reigned, waiting for Stane’s next move.

“I could help you,” Stane said finally, to Tony’s surprise. “I may not be a duke, but I am not without my influence at court.”

“Oh? What are you proposing?”

“I will help you get your… _heir_ ,” he said, making it clear that he didn’t believe such a person existed but was willing to pretend as much, “recognized so that he may inherit, but there’s something you must do for me in return.”

Here it was, why Stane was really here. “What’s that?” Tony said warily, caught off guard by how quickly Stane was ready to give up on the idea of having a dukedom.

Stane pulled a folded piece of paper out of an interior pocket of his coat and handed it over. Tony’s blood ran cold when he flipped it over and saw the seal, the wax red as blood stamped with a many-headed serpent.

* * *

“I don't understand. What kind of power?”

“The power of life or death,” Bucky said, and if Bucky hadn’t sounded so afraid Steve would have thought Bucky was trying to pull one over on him. “One is a cup that gives life, another is a spearhead that takes it away. One relic, Jesus’s knife from the Last Supper, creates many things from one and another, the sudarium, gives a weak and weary man the vigor of a stallion. There is also a crown of thorns that makes the wearer unable to tell a lie.”

“You’re talking about the powers of God,” Steve said, aghast. “That’s blasphemy. And also impossible.”

“It’s only blasphemy if it’s not true,” Bucky insisted. “But I swear, if you had those relics, you could heal me in less time than it takes to say Ave Maria. The Templars weren’t protecting these relics from the world, they were protecting the world from these relics.”

* * *

“What’s this?” Tony forced himself to say lightly, tapping the seal. “I don’t recognize that as being one of yours.”

“Just a group of like-minded individuals,” Stane said dismissively. He got up for the decanter of wine, refilling his own glass and topping up Tony’s.

Tony realized his hands were shaking when he tried to break the seal; he closed his fists tightly and took a deep breath before trying again, praying that Stane didn’t notice. Inside the paper was a list of the Templar’s missing relics, along with a detailed sketch of each. At the bottom, Barnes’s face stared out at him, and next to him was a less detailed picture of someone who looked like Steve. “The relics,” Tony said, feigning surprise. “They still haven’t been recovered?”

“No.” Stane leaned over Tony's shoulder to tap the picture of Barnes, and Tony barely managed not to flinch away from Stane’s proximity. “I have this man, but he refuses to give up their location. We think perhaps this other man might know where they are, but I haven’t found him yet.”

“And you think I can help?” Tony folded the paper back up and set it aside.

Stane gave him a sardonic look as he sat back down. “We have reason to believe that the man we are looking for is Sir Steve Rogers. You met with him many times before the Templars were dissolved.”

“Oh, is that who that picture was supposed to be?" Tony said lightly. "It’s a terrible likeness.”

“Enough, Tony. Do you know where this man is or not?”

“Not,” Tony lied.

“Are you sure?” Stane suddenly leaned forward, gaze intent. “Because we have reason to believe that he may have asked for your assistance leaving Paris when the King dissolved the Templars.”

Tony leaned forward as well, eyes steady on Stane's, refusing to be cowed. “If your information was any good, you would know that Sir Steve Rogers despises me. Given the number of times he’s told me I’m going to Hell, I doubt he would come to me for help.”

Stane studied him thoughtfully before sitting back. “Very well,” he said. Tony sat back as well, trying to cover his uneasiness with a sip of wine; he couldn’t tell if he’d convinced Stane or not. “But there is a good chance that these relics will end up in the hands of the Church, and if they do, I would expect you to make sure they come to me instead of being locked up in a vault in the Vatican.”

“And what do you want with them? A bunch of dusty old artifacts, probably fakes no older than the Kingdom of France itself?”

“I’m sure you know what impact these relics could have on the balance of power in Europe,” Stane said, and Tony waved his hand in impatient acknowledgement. “My compatriots and I only want to keep them safe to preserve the peace.”

Tony didn’t react to that bald faced lie. He rubbed his hand over his mouth as if he were contemplating Stane’s offer. “And if I refuse?”

“That would be unfortunate,” Stane said with a deep sigh. “I’d be disappointed to learn that you weren't any smarter than your father.”

* * *

“If you won’t let me see him, at least give him a message,” Steve insisted for the fourth time.

Blocking the door, the footman drew himself up and looked down his nose as much as he could given that Steve was a foot taller than him. “His Excellency said you were to be held in quarantine,” he said again. “He will see you when he has time for it, and no sooner. You will wait here until he is available.”

“The message I have for him is urgent,” Steve growled, taking a step forward so that he was looming over the young man.

“His Excellency has many urgent matters to deal with right now.” Steve could see the alarm in the man’s eyes, but he was otherwise unmoved. Steve would commend him for his bravery when he ever got to speak to Tony; it wasn’t many that would stay fast in front of Steve in a rage. He was strongly tempted to move the man and find Tony himself, but knew that was probably the last thing Tony would want. If he hadn’t come to check on Bucky, it was because something important was keeping him.

“Fine,” Steve said, relenting. He sat down on one of the empty beds sullenly, aware of Bucky’s eyes on him.

“He said he would come when he has time,” the footman said as he backed towards the door, clearly relieved. “I’m sure you appreciate that I can hardly interrupt him while he is meeting with Lord Stane.”

Steve’s head whipped up so quickly he made the footman jump. “With _who_?”

* * *

Tony’s pulse spiked with a sudden rage and his hand tightened on the stem of his glass. “So that’s what really happened,” he said acidly, sitting up straighter. “Howard said no, did he? So you took him out to the woods and broke his neck?”

Stane shook his head sadly, unmoved by Tony's fury. “Howard’s death was sudden and tragic. Given your history and…proclivities, I don’t think anyone would be surprised if you drank yourself to an early death.”

Tony curled his lip. “I think you’ll find me harder to kill than my father.”

Stane’s smile sent a chill up Tony's spine, cutting through his anger. “Maybe.” He leaned forward and tapped his wineglass against Tony’s. "Or maybe not."

Tony’s face went slack. “What? But-” He glanced between his glass and Stane’s, who drained his wine smugly. Tony held his glass up to the light and saw with dismay that there was a film on the inside, smudged and missing in places where he’d put his mouth. Tony’s stomach twisted with fear and nausea as Stane set his glass on the table and took a small cloth pouch out of his coat. Reaching in, Stane pulled out a small, round, waxy pill, rolling it between his fingers.

“Well?” Stane studied the pill with an affected casualness. “Do we have a deal?”

“You mean my life or the relics?” Tony gritted out. “Of course we have a deal.” He held out his hand for the pill but Stane put it back in the bag instead.

“Good. You have about a week before you start to feel the effects. Find me the relics or Sir Rogers before then and you can have the antidote.” He stood and clapped Tony on the shoulder. “I recommend quick work and a faster horse. When you are done, you can find me at my estate.”


	10. A Plan

“Lord Stane?” Bucky repeated after the footman scurried away. “Who the hell is Lord Stane?”

“Stane is the man who was holding you captive,” Steve said, thoughts racing. "What he is doing here, i have no idea."

“Oh shit.” Bucky paled. “Stark- he’s not…you don’t think they-” Bucky started, but Steve was shaking his head before Bucky could finish.

“No, I don’t.” Steve raked his fingers through his hair and sat down for just a moment before he was up again, pacing. “I’m worried that he’s in danger. That we all are.” His armor and sword were carefully hidden in the cart they’d borrowed from Anna and Edwin, but that had likely been taken to the stables and the attendants had already told them they weren’t allowed out of the room on Lord Stark’s orders. Escape was out of the question without Tony, and Steve knew that if he tried to barge in and save him there was a strong chance he would mess up some intricate plan Tony had in motion. As much as it pained him, their only option was to stay put and try not to attract any attention.

“So you trust him?” Bucky said, with an odd note in his voice.

“I do.” When Steve got to the far wall with his pacing and turned around, he realized Bucky was studying him. “What?”

“You’re different in the way you talk about him now. Calling him _Tony_ instead of Cardinal Stark. Even your tone is different.”

“Oh.” Steve looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “While we were looking for you, I finally had the scales fall from my eyes.” When Bucky only made a questioning noise, Steve shrugged and ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I realized he wasn’t the man that I thought he was. He’s been kinder to me than I deserve, and has risked everything to find you.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, eyeing him critically. “Sounds like you finally figured out that you want him so badly you can’t think straight.”

“Bucky!” Steve stopped in his tracks, feeling his face get hot, the blush crawling down his neck and chest. “That’s…you shouldn’t…”

“That’s a yes. Thank God for that at least. So are you going to do something about it?” When Steve stayed miserably silent, staring at the floor, Bucky groaned. “Goddammit. It’s because it’s a sin, isn’t it?” Steve nodded, and came to sit down on Bucky’s bed, resting his head in his hands. “You know," Bucky said, "I’ve always thought that the Church has you so twisted up inside that you can’t see God for the scriptures."

“What do you mean?”

"No matter how much they would like you to think it, the Church is not synonymous with God." Bucky shifted and hissed with pain but waved Steve away when he moved to help. “The Church is made up of men, and they are as fallible as you and I. Don’t listen to a bunch of fusty old men about what God thinks, read it for yourself.”

“I've read the Bible dozens of times,” Steve protested. "You of all people should know that." 

“Listen, Steve.” Bucky shifted, trying to sit up straighter, lips tightening a little with pain. “What’s the fifth commandment?”

“Thou shalt not kill,” he said automatically.

“Then where does the Church get the right to send us off to fight and die in their Holy Wars? It doesn’t say, ‘thou shalt not kill unless it’s Muslims, then it’s ok.’ And in which commandment does it tell you who to love? If He felt it was that important, why didn’t he make it a commandment? Why doesn’t Jesus ever say anything about it?” Bucky challenged. “I think it’s because maybe God doesn’t care who you love as long as you aren’t hurting anyone.”

Steve blinked, surprised at the vehemence in Bucky’s voice. “You sound… _angry,_ ” he said.

“Hell yes, I’m angry! We – the Templars, I mean, but also you and I – served the Church faithfully and then one day it destroys us, calling us heretics and scattering us to the four winds, torturing us and burning us at the stake, and why? _Avarice,_ pure and simple. Jealous of our power, greed for our gold. They wanted what we had so they wrapped their words in scripture and took what they wanted. God doesn’t do that. Men do. So as far as I’m concerned, I’ll find my own path to God, and the Church can go hang,” Bucky said defiantly, jaw set as if he expected Steve to argue with him.

But Steve only stared as if seeing Bucky for the first time. “I never thought about it like that,” he said instead. As a young squire, he’d been sparring with the other knights in training one sweaty afternoon and had come away from that session with an embarrassing erection that had only gone away when he’d found a private place to touch himself to thoughts of hard bodies pressed against his own. The next Sunday, the pastor’s sermon had thundered against deviant desires and Steve had felt like the pastor had been speaking directly to him, like God had seen his thoughts and was warning him away from a path of sin. He still remembered sitting in the pew with the sick feeling of fear and shame turning his guts to water as he listened to the pastor.

Now, however, the inside of his head felt strangely quiet as he absorbed Bucky’s words. _And what if the person you gave your oath to is faithless and untrue?_ Tony had asked him once, and at the time Steve hadn't known the answer. Bucky clearly hadn't had the same problem, and his conviction made the answer seem so clear. Like Alexander cutting through the Gordian Knot, Steve felt like the tangled knot of conflicting emotions that had been living in his chest had been cut right in two, leaving something clean and pure in its wake.

“Well,” Bucky said into the thoughtful silence, holding up his bandaged hands and his face softening into a rueful smile, “I’ve had a lot of time alone to think recently.”

Steve snorted. “Next time you decide to be a hermit in search of religious revelations, don’t pick a dungeon.”

“Maybe I was going for sainthood,” Bucky joked, and Steve just shook his head.

“You should rest,” he said, noting Bucky’s wan face. “I will wake you up when Tony comes, then you can tell him about the relics.” Bucky nodded, and Steve rearranged the pillows and blankets to make him more comfortable. He stretched out on one of the other beds and told Bucky rambling stories about his time with Tony until he heard Bucky’s breathing level out in sleep, then settled in to wait.

But Tony never came. Steve told himself that Tony would come for dinner, but nurses came and went with dinner and another tisane for Bucky and he never showed. Then he figured that Tony would come after dark, when the servants settled in to sleep, but the door stayed closed. Finally as the moon rose, Steve got tired of waiting. As beams of silver crawled in through the infirmary’s narrow windows, he slipped out of the room and searched for Tony. He wasn’t in the study, though the coals from the fire there were still warm. The master bedroom was cold and empty, but when he went up another floor he finally found a door with a faint line of light coming from underneath.

Steve pressed an ear to the door but couldn’t hear any voices on the other side. He knocked lightly and heard muttered “what?” in response. Warily, Steve opened the door quietly and was relieved to find that Tony was inside, and he was alone. “Tony?”

“Steve,” came Tony’s flat response. Hardly a welcome, but Steve came in anyway. Tony was slouched in a high backed armchair, legs stretched towards a dying fire in the fireplace. A half-empty bottle of wine hung carelessly from one hand. “What are you doing here?” Tony asked as Steve came in, eyes flickering up to look at him before returning to the fire. “Did Barnes cough up the relics yet?”

“He said that he sent them to you in Paris, just as we thought.”

Tony grunted in acknowledgement. “I’ll send a message to Sister Natasha, then, and make sure they arrived.”

There was another chair next to the fireplace, so Steve pulled it a little closer and sat down. Now that he was closer, he could see that Tony’s hair was tousled and his eyes were dry but red, mouth tight in the corners. He was wearing the silks and satins of a nobleman, but right now they were wrinkled and askew. “And Stane? Is he still here?”

Tony shook his head. “He’s gone, he doesn’t suspect anything. I think.” He opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, but apparently thought better of it because instead he just took a swallow of wine straight from the bottle.

Steve waited for Tony to say more, to explain what Stane had wanted and why he’d been here, but Tony remained silent, staring at the fire. “Are you alright?” Steve ventured. "You seem..."

Tony summoned as false a smile as Steve had ever seen on his face. “I'm fine. And you?” 

“What’s wrong?”

Tony’s laugh at that was sharp and bitter, like nothing Steve had heard from him before. “What makes you think something’s wrong?” he said. He used the bottle to wave at the elegant furnishings of the room, the thick rugs and art on the walls. “I’m back in my element, right? My silk sheets, I think you said? The only thing I’m missing is someone to warm my bed, but that shouldn’t be difficult, I’m sure I could find-”

“Tony,” Steve said softly. “Enough. Tell me what’s going on.”

Tony pressed his lips together tightly. “My father is dead,” he said after a moment. 

Steve inhaled sharply. “Oh, Tony, I’m sorry.” Tony only shrugged and silence fell, broken only by the sounds of the fire. As Tony took another swallow of wine, Steve suddenly realized that this was the first time he’d ever seen Tony actually drunk; he’d seen him often enough with a glass of wine in his hand, but much less so actually drinking from it. “How are you doing?” he finally ventured. “I know the news about your father must be…” Steve didn’t know how to finish his thought. His father had died when he was young, and his mother had been ill for a while before she passed; Tony’s father’s death had been sudden, and they had apparently been estranged for a long time. He couldn’t imagine what Tony was feeling right now.

Tony exhaled heavily. “I don’t know why I am grieving for a man that I hated,” he said, voice hollow. “I see – _saw_ – him perhaps twice a year for Easter and Christmas services at Notre Dame. So why do I feel…” Tony pressed a hand against his sternum, then sighed and let his head fall back against the chair. Steve had no idea how to answer that, but thankfully it seemed like an answer wasn’t required. Tony turned his head and met Steve’s eyes. “Have you ever been pulling so hard against something that when it finally gives way, you fall flat on your face?”

Steve frowned slightly as he thought about it, and eventually said, “I’m not sure, but I think I know what you mean.” As Tony turned his gaze back to the fire, Steve thought about everything Tony had ever said about his father, which was, admittedly, not much. “Do you want to tell me about him?”

Tony ran a hand over his face. “Aren’t you not supposed to speak ill of the dead?”

“Was your decision to become a priest part of this pulling away?” he asked. “Did you do it to spite him?”

“Oh, that wasn’t a _decision,_ ” Tony bit out. He took another drink, the light of the fire glinting through the dark bottle. “The truth is, I never wanted to join the Church. My father forced me into it after a youthful indiscretion. I only agreed because I thought I would be protecting someone I loved, but after I took my vows that I learned that my lover had taken a small fortune from my father and moved to Marseille.”

Of all the answers Steve had imagined, that was not one of them. “Was that the mother of your child?” Steve blurted, wincing as soon as the words left his mouth.

“My child?” Tony repeated in confusion.

“I saw you at an orphanage,” Steve confessed. “Months ago.”

“Oh,” Tony said with a soft huff of amusement. “No, I don't have a child. A mere bastard child would not have been sufficiently scandalous to force a first-born son into the church, if you take my meaning. I go to the orphanage because I like to spend time with the children there.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever spent time around children?” Tony drained the bottle and let it fall to the floor, ignoring it when it tipped over and rolled away. “They are very entertaining. And they are always honest about what they want from you, even if they are lying rapscallions about toys and sweets.”

The image of Tony surrounded by a bunch of toddlers trying to scam him for treats made a smile tug on Steve’s lips. “Is that what you like about them? The honesty?”

Tony shrugged. “For all my other sins, I rarely lie, and especially not about things that are important. What I hide, I hide to protect others, not myself.”

Steve thought about the Cardinal of Paris and the Duke d’Anjou and the Iron Cardinal and about lying and hiding and suddenly wondered how often Tony got to be just _Tony._ He thought about the man who had stars in his eyes and talked excitedly about windmills and realized anew just how much he had hurt him with his thoughtless accusation of perfidy. “You’re a good man, Tony,” he said softly.

“Oh?” Tony said, darkly amused. “My father would have disagreed with you.” He pushed himself up from his chair and crossed the room to a table on the far side. There was a tray there, with an untouched plate of food on it, but it had a bottle of wine on it as well and that's what Tony reached for.

“Then he was an ass,” Steve said as Tony sat back down.

“You would have agreed with him a few months ago,” Tony pointed out, mouth twisting.

Steve inhaled sharply. “Because _I_ was an ass,” he said. An impulse had Steve reaching for the bottle, and with raised eyebrows Tony handed it over. “I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

“Right,” Tony said, and Steve could tell he didn’t believe him.

“I mean it,” Steve insisted. “You were right. I wasn’t ever angry at you, I was angry at myself because of…” Steve took a fortifying swallow of wine, trying to find courage in the bottle before he handed it back. “Because of how you make me feel.” He stared at his hands, scared to look at Tony because of what he might see on his face. “You make me feel _so much_ and I thought it must be a sin because I wanted you so badly. And it was easier to blame you than blame myself, so I took it out on you, and hurt you, and _that_ was the real sin, not...not what I was feeling.” 

“That was…” Tony cleared his throat. “That was a fine confession. I’m sure you were the pride of your diocese.”

“I mean it.” Driven by an impulse that he didn’t examine too closely, Steve rose from his chair and fell to his knees in front of Tony. Heart pounding, he took the bottle from Tony’s fingers, took a deep swallow and set it aside. Then, eyes steady on Tony’s, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to Tony’s in a soft, clumsy kiss. The contact was brief but electric, making Steve suck in a breath; this one kiss was more exhilarating than the entire act with the few women Steve had slept with. He pulled back, and when Tony didn’t protest, he did it again, this time feeling Tony return it, tilting his head and moving his mouth against Steve’s, sending sparks up and down his spine. His hands came up to rest on Tony’s thighs for balance, but he heard Tony make a soft noise at the touch and was suddenly hungry to hear more.

“What are you doing?” Tony asked softly when Steve pulled back, voice barely audible, breath warm against Steve’s lips and sweet with wine.

“I don’t know,” Steve confessed. His heart was pounding so hard he thought perhaps Tony could hear it, breath coming so fast and shallow that he felt light-headed. He was surprised to realize he was achingly aroused, hard as a rock, after just those chaste kisses.

“What do you want?” The deep, rough tone in Tony’s voice was thrilling.

Steve’s eyes traveled over Tony’s face, the dark eyes, straight nose and thin, mobile mouth that he’d just kissed, framed by the goatee. Tony’s jaw was dark with stubble, and Steve wanted to put his mouth there, too, feel the roughness on his lips. His gaze followed the line of Tony’s neck, gleaming in the firelight, to where the hollow of his throat was visible above the loosened laces of his shirt. Tony’s thighs were hard under Steve’s hands, and he squeezed them, drawing another sound from deep in Tony’s chest. He wanted everything, things that he couldn’t put into words. Tony’s mouth, his hands. His body. The clever mind, the soft heart, the biting wit. “You,” he said finally. “I want you.”

“Is that all?” Tony said with a twist to his mouth. “Easily accomplished. _Too_ easily, as I’m sure you’ve thought in the past.” He nodded his head towards the corner of the room, where Steve suddenly noticed the bed that dominated that side of the room, an enormous wooden four-poster with heavy curtains. Steve swallowed thickly, trying to reign in an imagination that was trying to show him all the things that could be done in a bed like that, and turned his gaze back to Tony’s.

“Not like that.” When Tony arched his brow and gave him a pointed look, Steve flushed and amended, “Not _just_ like that. I also want this,” he said, running thumb over Tony’s brow. “And this,” he added, pressing his palm to Tony’s sternum.

Steve held his breath as Tony studied him. “’All my youth, I have loved, often,’” Tony recited softly after a long moment. “’Long loved and keenly yearned, and it hast cost me dearly.’”

Steve tilted his head. “What does that mean?”

“It means I've already ruined my life once for a man who hated the part of himself that loves me. I'm not doing it again, even if that means living without love in the first place.”

“It’s not like that,” Steve said softly. He kept his hand on Tony’s chest, feeling the beat of his heart, the rise and fall as he breathed. “’Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God,’” he quoted. He’d had a long time to think while waiting for Tony, and there had been a small, worn Bible next to Bucky’s bed in the infirmary. As it had grown too dark to read, Steve had decided that Bucky was right; listening the Church was not the only way to live a righteous life. Tony was silent for too long, and when Steve looked up at his face, he saw that Tony’s eyes looked anguished. “What?”

“There was…” Tony’s voice failed him and he stopped, jaw working. Light glittered on unshed tears in his eyes as he stared fiercely into the fire. “When I ran away from home with my lover, we hid in what I thought was an abandoned church. A priest found us in the morning, lying together behind the nave, cold and hungry. I thought he was going to turn us in to my father, but instead he fed us and saw us on our way. When I asked why, that’s what he told me. Even after…everything, I never forgot that.”

Steve's heart ached for Tony, at the picture Steve was starting to see more clearly: a younger, more idealistic Tony, caught up in the heady rush of forbidden love, runs away but is discovered by an angry father and forced into the Church to redeem his virtue while his lover lives well on dishonest money. Steve pressed a kiss to the corner of Tony's eye, tasting salt, then brushed another over the arch of Tony's cheek on his way to Tony's mouth, wanting to kiss the heartache from his face, but Tony stopped him with a finger on his lips.

“I’m drunk,” Tony said softly. “You should go.”

Steve sat back on his heels, swallowing back his disappointment. He nodded and stood, stooping to retrieve the bottle of wine as he walked to the door. “I’m taking this with me,” he said, taking a swallow. He’d never drunk his sorrows away before, but now seemed like a good time to start.

“Steve.” Tony’s voice reached him as he was almost to the door. “This isn’t a no, just…Come to me when all this is done and maybe I’ll believe you.”

* * *

To Steve’s surprise, Tony came to the infirmary first thing in the morning, bearing breakfast and Bucky’s morning tisane, walking in just as Steve was helping Bucky sit up in bed. The effort left Bucky short of breath and lips tight with pain, and he gratefully drank the tisane as Steve held it up to his mouth.

“Good morning, Cardinal Stark,” Bucky said when he was finished, eyeing Tony’s muted clothing. He looked neither like a cardinal nor a member of the peerage today, wearing plain if well-spun clothing and carrying a tray of food like a common footman.

“Please, call me Tony,” he said as he pulled up a chair next to the bed. Steve sliced an apple and offered him one, but Tony waved it away with a shake of his head. “How are you feeling?” He asked instead, studying the still purple bruises on Bucky’s face.

“In pain,” Bucky said honestly, accepting piece of apple from Steve and holding it clumsily with his bandaged hands. “Scared. Pissed off.”

Tony gave him a sympathetic smile. This morning he looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than normal and his shoulders slumped like he was carrying a heavy weight, but his smile was genuine enough. “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around. Can I see your hands?” When Bucky offered him the closest one, Tony gently unwound the bandages and carefully inspected the broken bones that Anna had set. They were still swollen but to Steve’s relief the skin wasn’t hot or red, so there didn’t seem to be any infection.

“Good,” Tony said as he found clean bandages and rewrapped them. “They seem to be healing well. I don’t think we’ll need to call a chirurgeon.”

“They’d heal a lot faster with the relics,” Bucky said. Steve frowned at him over Tony’s head but Bucky ignored him. “Did Steve tell you what I told him? About their powers?”

“I’d like to hear it from you, if you don’t mind,” Tony said diplomatically, not missing a beat. He pulled out a sheet of paper from under the breakfast plate and handed it to Bucky. “Are these the relics you mean?”

Steve leaned over to read the paper as Bucky grew pale. “Where did you get this?” he asked shakily.

“Stane. He asked me if I’d seen a man matching either of these pictures,” he said dryly, pointing at the sketches on the bottom of the page. “Now we have three separate parties looking for the relics. The crown, the church, and Hydra.”

“Tell me these are safe,” Bucky demanded. The paper was shaking in his hands. “Tell me you know exactly where they are, and they are safely under lock and key.”

“I’ve already sent a pigeon to Paris,” Tony said soothingly. “We will know in a few hours, I promise. What can you tell me about them?”

“They can perform miracles,” Bucky said, and even though Steve knew that there was no way that Tony believed that, there wasn’t even a flicker of doubt or skepticism in his expression as he kept his gaze on Bucky. “This one,” he said, pointing to the grail, “heals. This one kills.” He went down the list, naming the powers that he’d described to Steve until he got to the bottom one, which was a coil of rope. “This one didn’t do anything, though,” he said. “Not that I could tell, at least. “

“So you tried them?” Tony said, brows furrowed. “You used them and found out what they could do?”

“No, nothing like that. Well, sort of.” Bucky sighed at let his head fall back against the headboard. “I had researched the relics when we first came to Paris, out of curiosity. The Templar’s records described the powers of the artifacts and even had signed testimonials attesting to their power, but I didn’t believe them, not really. But when I fled the city, they weren’t wrapped very tightly and one fell out of its wrappings when I stopped to camp. This one,” he said, pointing to the picture of a spearhead. “When I went to pick it up, the plants around it were withered and dead. I took off my shirt and used it to pick the relic up, and touched it against a small sapling.” He looked up to meet Tony’s eyes. “The leaves dried up and fell off the branches as I watched. In seconds, the whole thing was dead. That's when I realized that the legends were true. So the next time I went to town, I bought the stoutest box I could find and locked that evil thing away.”

“And the others?”

“The grail I used when my horse came up lame with an inflamed hoof; I was miles from town and desperate because the King’s men were on my trail. And this one, the crown of thorns, I used on the man that I entrusted with the relics.” Bucky let the piece of paper fall to his lap and pushed it towards Tony, clearly growing tired. “No one of evil intent should get their hands on these,” he said emphatically. “Because with them, they could destroy the world.”

Tony nodded thoughtfully and folded the piece of paper, setting it on the tray next to the empty plates. “I agree that the relics need to be protected,” he said. “But that doesn’t solve the immediate problem of people trying to kill us to get their hands on them. None of them will rest until they are located.”

“What if,” Steve said slowly, frowning as he turned the thought over in his head, “we give them what they want? All of them?”

Tony, of course, was the one who realized what he meant first. “You’re talking about forgeries,” he breathed, face lighting up as he picked up the piece of paper to look at the pictures of the relics again. “Of course! I could kiss you, that’s brilliant.”

“Yes please,” Steve said under his breath, but Tony didn’t hear him because at the same time Bucky frowned and said, “How does that help?”

“No one gets their hands on the real relics,” Tony explained. “So no one can use the powers that you say they have. And the first time someone tries to tout them to the public, the others will come forward as well, and then they will all argue about who has the real one and who has the forgeries.”

“But won’t they come after us again once they realize they are forgeries?”

"Not if everyone thinks _theirs_ are the real ones," Steve said.

"But how do we do that?"

Tony tapped the piece of paper against his lips, gaze far away as he thought. “You know, the lies that fool us the best are the ones we tell ourselves,” he mused. He stood up suddenly and strode out the door, leaving Steve and Bucky staring after him.


	11. Bait and Switch

Tony sighed and shook out his hand, stretching his cramping fingers from where they’d been curled around a quill for too long. His back was hurting too, from leaning over the desk, and his head ached from staring at letters and figures for days on end. But none of that was new; sometimes he wondered that he could stand up straight at all, for all the hours he spent bent over his work. The worrying part was the creeping numbness in his fingers, the way his stomach cramped and turn at the mere thought of eating, and dizziness that struck increasingly often. One of those struck him now, and he sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with a sigh as he waited for it to pass.

After a moment there was a rap at the door. “Tony?”

“Come in.” He sat up straight and tried to look alert as Steve came in, carrying a tray of food. Though the smell of the food made him nauseous, under Steve’s concerned eyes he forced himself to reach for the bread and tear off a bite. Steve sat and looked at the piles of paper on Tony’s desk with sympathy.

“Can I help you with anything?” He asked, carefully tidying a stack of papers. “You know, I still have a good hand with the pen from when I was training to be an illuminator."

Tony hesitated, sorely tempted. Help with writing what felt like an interminable stack of letters felt like a Godsend – he had to write instructions to solicitors, letters to neighbors, announcements to villages, orders to people throughout the Iron Cardinal network. It seemed like he must be killing entire forests for all the paper he was using. He’d already gone through multiple quills already; some goose somewhere was going to be chilly come winter once Tony used up all his feathers. “No, I’m fine,” he lied after a moment, summoning a smile. “I can take care of it.” There’s no way Steve wouldn’t notice his growing frailty if he stayed to help.

It must not have been a very good smile, though, because Steve still looked concerned. “What’s wrong?”

Tony rubbed his forehead. “Nothing. Just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I think it’s more than that,” Steve said. He reached over the desk and pressed a finger to the line on Tony’s brow, trying to smooth it out. “Tell me. Please?”

“It’s just a lot to deal with right now,” Tony gestured at the papers on his desk. “Once I’m done, I’ll be able to sleep for a week and I’ll be back to my old self.”

“Tony, you haven’t been sleeping and you barely eat. Your face is deathly pale and the smallest thing tires you out. You are _sick.”_

“I’m not sick, I’m just stressed out,” Tony insisted. “Overworked. There’s just so much to do I can hardly take a break.”

Steve looked skeptical and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m calling Ana and Edwin.”

“Don’t you dare,” Tony said, gripping the arms of his chair tight and trying not to panic. Ana would easily recognize the signs of poison. “Do not bring them into this mess, it’s too dangerous.”

“You’re right,” Steve said finally. “But I don’t like it. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’ll be fine, really. Once…well, you know. This business with the relics is complete.”

As distractions went, bringing up the relics was always successful. “Have you heard anything?”

“Natasha says she’s done with the first set of forgeries,” Tony said. “With one set done, the rest should be faster and easier to make.” Tony’s network had been scrambling to lay the groundwork for the discoveries; the harder the agents of the king, church, and Hydra worked to find the relics, the more convinced they would be that theirs were the real ones and the others were fakes. If the stakes were different Tony would actually be amused at the thought of agents racing across France following an increasingly obscure set of clues until they found the carefully hidden but not _too_ carefully hidden stash of forgeries Tony made for them but as it was, all he felt was…tired.

“That’s good, right? Does that mean this will all be over soon?”

“Yes, thank God,” Tony said with a deep breath and long exhale, trying to get his heart to stop racing because it was only making his headache worse.

“Can I kiss you?”

Despite everything, Tony had to smile at the way the request _still_ made the tips of Steve’s ears go pink, even though he’d asked the same question almost every time they had the privacy for it. Steve seemed intent on making up for lost time by trying out every time of kiss he could think of, from chivalrous pecks on the cheek to deep, thorough kisses that left them both breathless. “Yes,” Tony said. He was trying to be strong, but he was too weak to deny himself this; not now, when he might not…Tony shook his head to dispel the thought before it could spoil the moment, because Steve was coming around the desk and Tony’s heart was already starting to race in anticipation.

Smiling gently, Steve pulled Tony’s chair away from the desk so he could lean over him and press a soft kiss to the corner of Tony’s eye, light as a butterfly. Tony let out a shuddering breath and his eyes fluttered closed at the contact as he did the same to the other. The brush of Steve’s lips moved to Tony’s temple, then down to the corner of his mouth. Tony turned his head to chase his mouth but Steve pulled away. He cupped Tony’s face and ran a thumb over his bottom lip. Tony licked his lips and felt a curl of heat at the noise Steve made deep in his chest. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair again, this time with the desire to curl his hands in Steve’s hair, to pull him down and draw more sounds from him. But once he started, he didn’t know if he would be able stop. Like a drowning man yearning for land, Tony ached for Steve, but he couldn’t reach for what he wanted. Not so long as his life belonged to Stane.

When Tony opened his eyes, Steve must have seen his thoughts written on his face, because he just pressed one more kiss to Tony’s forehead and stood. “Please eat, Tony,” he said, and Tony nodded, vowing to try. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

* * *

It was another couple of days before Tony got the message that everything was in place, and by then he was so weak that his hands shook as he unrolled the tiny scroll that had been fastened to a pigeon's leg. It had been nine days since his meeting with Stane and Tony was barely holding it together. At this point, only his force of will was keeping him going, sending him staggering from bed to desk every day as he used every weapon in his arsenal to foil Stane’s plans.

He dropped the message on the desk and wished he felt happier about this; mostly he just wondered if he was going to live long enough to see Stane pay for his crimes. With a sigh he wrote a message for Stane then reached for the bell and rang for a servant. He gave the footman instructions to have the message sent immediately to the Vicomte then asked the servant to send Steve up to his study. While he waited, he levered himself to his feet and shuffled over to the mirror, grimacing at how gaunt he looked. Grateful it was night, Tony poked the fire to make the flames die down and blew out some candles so Steve wouldn’t fuss at his appearance. He got himself settled comfortably in his chair, pillows at his back, and called for Steve to come in when he knocked.

“It’s time,” Tony said as Steve sat down. “Everything is in place.”

“Thank God,” Steve said. “What’s the plan?”

“Sometime in the morning, Stane will be coming here, and he’s going to ask for the relics. I’m going to tell him what we agreed. But I’m going to need you in there,” Tony said. “And we’re going to have to make you look as bad as Bucky did when we first got him out. Stane won’t believe me unless he thinks I tortured this information out of you.”

There was a pause and Steve said, “I understand,” voice carefully regulated, and Tony let out a bark of laughter when he realized what Steve was thinking.

“Not like _that,_ ” Tony said, pressing a hand to his side where the laughter had caused a jab of pain. “With paint and other artistry. Like the beggars use to look more miserable.” Steve visibly relaxed, and Tony saw the gleam of the fire along his jaw as he nodded. “However, there is one thing that you need to understand that is critically important.”

“Whatever you need, Tony, I’ll do it.”

“During this meeting, no matter what you hear in there,” Tony said urgently, willing Steve to understand how important this was, “ _do not react_. If you behave as anything other than a man on the edge of death, we are all doomed.” His worst fear was that Steve would hear about the poisoning and attack Stane, which would ruin everything. “Understand?”

“I understand,” Steve said.

“Even if he mentions James.” Tony prayed that the reminder would help Steve appreciate the stakes. Over the past week, Bucky had managed to do short walks around the property and his bruises had started fading from purple to a sickly mottled green; he was healing well but was still a telling testament to what Stane was capable of.

“I swear on the Cross, Tony.” Steve leaned forward in his chair like he was trying to look Tony in the eyes. Tony shifted so that his face was in shadow, praying that the dying light of the fire wouldn’t betray him. “I’ll do exactly as you say.”

“Good,” Tony said with relief. “Now, I believe we both need our sleep,” he added, hoping to forestall Steve’s usual request for a kiss. As much as he craved them, he feared that Steve would hear the wheeze in his breathing and feel the slackness of his skin if he came any closer.

“Very well,” Steve said as he stood, clearly trying to hide his disappointment. “Good night, Tony.”

The next morning, the same artist that had been sent to make Steve look half dead was just finishing up Tony’s own face paint, trying to make him look less ill, when there was a knock on the door.

“He’s here, Your Excellency,” the footman announced. “In the study.”

“Showtime,” Tony said with a grimace, waiving away the painter. Tony pulled himself to his feet and the footman handed him his walking cane, a vanity one that he’d purchased in order to make a statement when he was acting as the Iron Cardinal. Tony leaned on it heavily as he made his way to the study, reminding himself of the stakes involved in this meeting every time he had to stop to catch his breath.

“Tony, it’s good to see you,” Stane said with the easy geniality of a man who knows he’s holding the winning hand. He eyed Tony as he made his way into the study and leaned with a sigh of relief against his desk. “You don’t look so good, are you ill?” He asked, voice solicitous.

“Fuck you, Stane,” Tony said, curling his lip. “You can cut the shit. I’ve got what you want. Bring him in,” he called out, and on cue his men dragged Steve in, filthy and covered in blood. As he hung limply in the arms of the soldiers, Tony fisted a hand in Steve’s hair and dragged his head up so Stane could see his face. “This is the one you were looking for, Sir Steve Rodgers. We left his face mostly untouched so you could see it was the right man. You were right, after all,” Tony said, letting Steve’s head fall back down. At a gesture from Tony, the soldiers dropped him and left him lying limp on the floor. “He trusted me enough to come running when I said I knew where his friend was.”

Stane raised his eyebrows as he circled Steve’s limp, bloody body. “I’m impressed,” he said. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Well you didn’t give me much of a choice, did you?” Tony pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his desk and handed it to Stane. “This is what we got out of him. I’d have him tell you himself, but,” Tony said with a shrug, “well, his pretty face is pretty much the only thing we left intact.”

Stane opened the paper and his eyebrows drew together. “What is this?”

“He said he doesn’t know where the relics are, but he knows how to find them. His friend left him a map and clues, things that only a Templar would know.” Tony tapped the page, which had a map on one side and a series of notes on the other. “This is everything anyone would need to find the relics. Believe me, I made sure this one told me everything ”

“And that’s what this is? A map to hidden treasure?” Stane said skeptically. “Sounds like you’re sending me on a wild goose chase, Tony.”

“You think I want to draw this out any longer than necessary?” Tony snapped. He struggled to a chair and sat down as if he were too weak to stand any longer, something that was sadly not too far from the truth. “I even took the time to mark the most likely location of the relics. In fact, I’ve done everything but dump the damn things in your lap. As you can see, I’m hardly in any condition to go haring off on a treasure hunt. Though if you gave me the antidote, and more time…” Tony trailed off suggestively. This was it, the moment on which everything hinged; was Stane greedy and arrogant enough to buy it? Had Tony dangled a tempting enough lure, spun a sufficiently convincing story? The moment stretched as Stane studied the page, flipping it over to read the clues and notes Tony had written on the back; when he finally refolded it, Tony let out a silent breathe of relief at the satisfied look on Stane’s face.

“Good work, Tony. You really came through.” He nudged Steve with his boot, grimacing with distaste. “I’ll let you dispose of this one, shall I?”

“I’m so glad you are pleased,” Tony said sarcastically. “Now. The antidote?”

“Sorry, Tony,” Stane said over his shoulder as he stepped over Steve’s body to reach the door. “There never really was an antidote. Not that I’d give it to you, anyway. You are far too much of a pain in my ass to keep around. Hope you took this time to get your affairs in order.”

“You unmitigated bastard,” Tony snarled. “Tell me why I shouldn’t order you killed where you stand.” He reached for the bell to ring for his guards, but it wasn't in its usual place; seeing Stane's smirk, he followed Stane's gaze to where the bell was on the mantel, impossibly far away.

“That's not very Christian of you, Cardinal. An eye for an eye leaves every man blind,” Stane admonished him with a smile still on his face. “Besides, you can't defeat the Hydra. If you cut one of us down, two more shall rise, and the people you care about will be the ones to pay the price."

“Get out of my house, Stane,” Tony muttered savagely, staring at him with hate in his eyes, and with a final smile Stane left, closing the door to the study behind him. Tony collapsed back in his chair and the room was silent until a footman knocked and said through the door, “He’s gone, milord.”

At that, Steve pushed himself to standing and crossed the study in two long strides to study Tony with terrified fury. “ _Antidote?_ ” he said. “This whole time, you’ve been poisoned? For God’s sake, Tony, why didn’t you say something?” His hands hovered like he wanted to grab Tony but didn't know where to put his hands.

Tony let his head fall back against the chair, too numbed by the loss of hope, thin though it had been, that Stane was going to let him live to feel anything but tired by Steve’s anger. “What would be the point? It wouldn’t have changed anything,” he said. “But the important thing is, it’s over. The ambitions of the King and Church are blunted so Europe is safe, for the time being, and Hydra will never have the real relics, whether they have mystical powers or not.”

“But- but you are-“ Clearly Steve couldn’t bring himself to say the words, so Tony said them for him.

“Dying? Passing on? About to meet our Maker?” Tony huffed out a laugh of bitter amusement. “I sure hope so, I have plenty of words to say to him.” Tony took a deep breath, summoning his strength, and stood. “Come on, after that I am in desperate need for a drink.”

“That’s what you’re going to do now? Drink?” Steve said in disbelief. Despite his anger and dismay, he still reached out and steadied Tony when he started to list to one side, hands gentle.

“What else can I do?” Tony said, letting himself lean on Steve for the moment as they left the study and started heading towards Tony’s rooms. “I don’t know the poison, so I can’t take an antidote. I’ve already tried all the ones that I knew of and nothing worked. As you’ve pointed out, I’m getting weaker and weaker. I’m losing feeling in my hands; it’s getting harder and harder to hold things. I’m sure the numbness will spread, and eventually my heart will just…” Tony gestured. “Stop. Or maybe my breathing, but I hope it’s my heart first, less painful that way.” He glanced up at Steve’s stony expression, then glanced away again. “You should take James and go. You should be safe now, and I don’t want you hanging around and making faces like _that_ at me while I’m on my deathbed.”

“Oh, I’m going somewhere alright,” Steve said grimly. “I’m going to Paris to get those goddamn relics.” Tony raised his eyebrows at the tone in Steve’s voice; that was the kind of tone that demanded that Steve be wearing a snowy white surplice with armor instead of rags filthy with pig’s blood. “The Iron Cardinal must have post horses between here and Paris. Tell me what to do.”

* * *

Steve had never ridden this hard for so long in his life, not even in the desperate dash to get Bucky to safety. His world narrowed to the rhythm of the horse’s hooves, the hypnotic rush of its breathing, the beaten dirt road framed by its ears. His back and thighs ached, hands blistering from the reins; each time he switched horses, it was harder and harder to get back on as his muscles protested the abuse. But every time he sat down for a moment as he changed horses, when he accepted food and water that was pressed into his hands at each stop, he saw Tony’s face, its waxy paleness and sunken cheeks, and was driven back to his feet.

The bells of Notre Dame were ringing midnight when he reined his most recent horse to a stop in front of the Church. He pushed his way past the night priest and headed towards Tony’s quarters, looking for someone who could take him to Sister Natasha. He didn’t know how she found out he was here, but he was turning a corner and found her in front of him, hair covered by a simple scarf rather than a wimple from where she had dressed in a hurry.

“I need to see the relics,” Steve demanded as soon as he saw her. “Now.”

“The relics have already been hidden, as the Cardinal demanded,” Natasha said, taken aback by Steve’s urgency. “Why? What’s going on?”

“Not _those_ relics, the real ones,” Steve said. He was barely controlling the urge to shake her into action. “I know you still have the real ones.” If he knew Tony, and he liked to think that he did, there’s no way he would have ordered these relics to be hidden without the chance to investigate if Bucky’s claims were true. His sense of curiosity was too strong for that.

“Why?”

Steve bit back a frustrated roar. “Take me to the relics, and I’ll tell you,” he gritted out, and something of his urgency must have made an impression because Natasha finally nodded and gestured for him to follow. He followed her through the stone halls of Notre Dame, past the corridors he was familiar with and down through ones he wasn’t, until they were deep inside the bowels of the church.

“Brother Steve?”

The vaguely familiar voice brought Steve up short, and when Natasha stopped in front of a stout iron-clad door he was stunned to see Hassam standing there. "What-"

“Steve needs one of the relics,” Natasha said, and when Hassam turned to her he bowed respectfully. “The Iron Cardinal needs them.”

“Of course, sayeeda,” he said. He stepped aside while she unlocked the door.

“ _He_ had the artifacts the whole time?” He said incredulously when the realization hit him. “How? Why?”

“Who would think to search a Muslim for a bunch of Christian artifacts? It’s not like he’s going to steal them,” Natasha said over her shoulder as she pushed the door open with a loud squeal from the hinges.

That he and Tony would have come so close to the relics without knowing it beggared belief; what perverse hand of God brought Bucky and Hassam together, and then had him and Tony follow so close on Bucky’s heels? “How did you meet Bucky? Why would he trust you with the relics?”

“Desperate times calls for desperate measures, my friend,” Sam said. He pulled a chest out from the corner of the room, which was stacked high with what was probably illegal contraband, and produced another key. “Your friend took a risk, yes, but it would have gone much worse for him had he been discovered with these in his possession.” Sam glanced at him with amusement as he opened the lid to the chest. “Perhaps if you and ‘Brother Eduard’ had been as trusting, we all would have been saved a great deal of trouble.”

The mention of Tony snapped Steve out of his bemusement and he looked down at the chest. Nestled in sturdy silk were the relics, easily recognizable from the sketches Steve had seen. From Bucky’s awed reverence whenever he spoke of them, he expected that being in their presence would feel different, somehow remarkable, but instead they looked banal. He started to reach in but Natasha grabbed his wrist. “What’s wrong with Tony?” she asked, and Steve didn’t even question how she knew.

“Poison,” he said. “Stane has poisoned him, and there’s no antidote. I need the grail, and I pray that it works as Bucky says it does.”

“It does,” Sam said. “I’ve witnessed it with my own eyes.”

“I was afraid of something like that,” Natasha said, and spat a word in a language Steve didn’t recognize. “His missives lately had a tone I didn’t like.”

Sam took a piece of silk and carefully wrapped it around the plain wooden cup. “These artifacts are best handled with the utmost care and respect. They have been touched by Allah.”

“I will protect it with my life,” Steve swore as he took the grail from him.

“Allah yameek, my friend,” Sam said as he closed the chest and relocked it. “May it save the Iron Cardinal, I would very much like to meet him again.”

“He may not be the most devout man, but I’m sure prayers wouldn’t hurt,” Steve said with a bow before he turned to Natasha. “I need a fresh horse.”

Natasha shook her head. “You should rest, or you will fall off your horse, break your neck, and will be saving no one. I will go.”

Steve’s hands tightened on the grail. “You will have to take this from me by force, and then bind me tightly to something sturdy to keep me from taking this to Tony _right now,_ ” he growled.

She put her hand on his arm, trying to turn him around, but he shrugged her off. “Then I’m going with you.”

"Fine,” he said without stopping. “Gather what you need, but I won’t wait for you.”

* * *

“Well aren’t we a pair,” Tony said, completely exhausted from the effort of feeding himself. He was in bed, propped up against his pillows while James was in a chair next to him, having made his way up from the infirmary to join him for dinner. The walk had taxed James's strength, and he was eating his own dinner with slow deliberation so his shaking hands wouldn't spill his food.

“The sickbed is not so entertaining that I would have recommended you come for an extended stay,” James said dryly. “But I’m sure you won’t be here long.”

“Thanks,” Tony said dryly. He had no doubt that rumors of his affliction had already spread like wildfire amongst the staff, because they were being so solicitous that Tony had finally had to order them to go away and leave him in peace.

“That’s not what I meant,” James said with a snort. “Once Steve comes back with the grail, we will _both_ be out of here.”

Tony turned his head to study him thoughtfully. “You truly believe that the relics have powers,” he said, eyebrows drawing together.

James shook his head. “No. I _know_ the relics have powers.”

“Huh.” Tony lay back to stare at the ceiling. His breath was ragged and labored, whistling in and out of his lungs. “What if it doesn’t work all the time? For everybody?”

James frowned as he considered the question. “You mean, what if the grail only heals some people? Like it chooses who to heal?”

“Yes.”

This time, Tony could feel James's eyes on him, and he refused to meet his gaze. “The grail will not refuse to heal you, Tony,” he said softly.

“I’m hardly pure of heart,” Tony joked weakly, summoning a smile. “Or pure of anything, really.”

There was a long silence, and then Tony made a shocked sound when something hit him on the arm. Looking down, he saw that James had thrown a dinner roll at him. “I understand now what Steve sees in you,” James said, rolling his eyes. “You are both _idiots._ ”

“Hey!” Tony protested. “Don’t abuse me, I’m dying.”

“You’re going to be fine,” James said. “I’m sure Steve is racing hell for leather to get back to you so you can make the beast with two backs and live happily ever after.”

That surprised a laugh out of Tony, even if it ended with a thin, rasping cough. “From your lips to God’s ears,” he managed.

“Look, I’ve looked into the face of evil,” James said. “You have too. It’s in the smile of a person who takes joy from another’s pain, in the greed of a person who takes from people who have little or from those who don’t want to give. It is _not_ in sharing the pleasures of the flesh too freely. In my opinion the world could do with a little more of that.”

“I feel like you’ve been talking to Steve,” Tony said after a moment. “Did you give him the same speech?”

“He was getting there on his own.” James finished his bowl and set it aside. “I just helped him talk through some things.”

“Right.” Against his will, Tony found his eyes starting to close; exhaustion suddenly hit him like a wave, the weariness tugging on his bones. “Wake me up when he gets back, will you? I want to see this miracle for myself.”

“Hey, don't go to sleep, you’re supposed to be keeping me company here,” James chided him gently. Tony felt his lips curl in a smile, but he was already too close to sleep to come up with a response. “Tony?" James said, voice full of urgency, and Tony heard something clatter to the floor as hands shook him. "Come on, Tony, stay with me-"


	12. The Morning After

The sun’s rays were casting long shadows in Tony’s room when Steve burst through the door to Tony’s bedroom to see Bucky sitting on the edge of his bed, cradling Tony’s limp hand. “He’s still breathing, but he won’t wake up,” Bucky said as he looked up, face pale with worry. “Do you have it?”

In answer, Steve pulled the grail out of the bag that had been thrown over his shoulder, unwrapping it carefully from the silk as he let the bag fall to the floor. “Now what do I do?” he asked, turning it over in his hands. It was hard to believe this plain, simple peasant’s cup could have the powers Bucky said it did.

“He should drink from it, obviously,” Natasha said brusquely, hip checking him to the side. She grabbed a pitcher of water from next to the basin Tony used to wash his hands and took the grail from Steve. “Hold him up.”

Bucky moved out of the way as Steve sat down on the bed and took Tony in his arms. Steve made a wounded noise and looked stricken at how much weight Tony had lost, how his head lolled limply on his neck. It was hard to see a man as vibrant and active as Tony be brought so low, and Steve couldn’t resist the need to press a kiss to Tony’s fevered forehead. “Like this?” Steve said as he propped Tony up so he was reclining against Steve’s chest, head resting against his shoulder.

Natasha nodded and knelt on the bed as she took Tony by the jaw and tilted his head back to pour the water from the grail into his mouth, tipping it slowly so he wouldn’t choke. It felt like it took an agonizingly long time to get the contents of the small cup into him, sip by sip, having to start over every time the water spilled out of Tony’s slack mouth, but eventually the grail was empty. Steve set him gently back against the bed, and they all held their breath as they watched him for any sign of improvement.

“He’s breathing easier,” Natasha finally said with relief, shoulders slumping. She reached over and smoothed a hand over Tony’s hair, growing out again from where he’d cut it short all those days ago.

Steve nodded in agreement. “His color is already better,” he said. He pressed a hand to Tony’s forehead, which was already noticeably cooler. “I think it’s working.” He took the grail from Natasha’s limp fingers, studying it with wonder. “You were right,” he said to Bucky, voice thick and eyes damp. “Thank you.”

“Thank God,” Bucky said simply, then smiled wryly as he looked down at his hands, where the fingers were still splinted and bandaged. “I don’t suppose I could have some, too?”

* * *

Tony woke up slowly with the most intense feeling of well-being that he’d ever had in his life. He could hear birds chirping and the early morning sun was a dim light behind his eyelids, telling him that the sun was starting its journey across the sky. He stretched and inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the feel of soft linen against his skin and the warm weight of the blankets against the chill of the morning air. He sighed happily, then suddenly his memory came back and his eyes snapped open as he sat up sharply.

“I’m alive,” he said to his empty bedroom. He looked down at his hands and saw that his bones no longer pressed in sharp relief against his skin, and as he flexed his fingers the numbness was completely gone. He was also _starving_ , too, which was a feeling he hadn’t had for far too long. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, waiting for the dizziness to come but it never did. He was staring at his feet, contemplating actually jumping for joy, when the door to his room swung open.

“You’re awake!” Steve said joyfully, pausing just long enough to set down a tray of food before almost tackling Tony back into bed with a hug. Tony oophed at the impact but had to grin, happy to feel Steve in his arms. “How are you feeling?” Steve took a step back but kept his hands on Tony’s shoulders, like he couldn’t bear to stop touching him, as he studied Tony critically.

“Absolutely fantastic,” Tony said. “I haven’t felt this good since I was a much younger man. What did you do?”

“It was the relic,” Steve said, smiling faintly when Tony made a face. “Bucky was right. The grail, at least, can perform miracles. It healed you and Bucky both.”

Tony opened his mouth a couple of times, then finally sighed. “Well, it’s not like I can argue with results,” he said finally. “But I want to see this grail for myself.”

“Of course.” Steve was still smiling at him, eyes roving over his face like he thought he’d never see Tony again; which was fair, Tony reflected. He hadn’t thought he would see Steve – or anyone – again either. One of Steve’s hands came up to cup Tony’s cheek, and Tony leaned his face into the touch.

“Do you still-” Tony started at the same time that Steve said, “You said that-” and they both stopped with a huff of laughter. “You first,” Tony said.

“You said that I should come to you when this was all done,” Steve said softly. “I’m here, and I want you more than ever.”

Tony’s throat closed up at the sincerity in Steve’s voice and the warmth in his eyes. His words were failing him, so the only response Tony could think to make was to rise up and press his lips to Steve’s. Steve made a muffled sound of surprise, and then with a groan from deep in his chest he wrapped an arm around Tony’s back and pulled him close. “God, Tony I was so scared,” Steve murmured against Tony’s mouth, voice wrecked. His kisses were hungry and desperate, and Tony’s morning had the potential to get a lot more interesting if two things hadn’t happened: one, his stomach rumbled with an almost embarrassing loudness, reminding him that it had been some time since he’d eaten, and two, they both heard Natasha and James’s voices coming down the hallway. As the sound of their conversation grew louder, Steve released Tony with a flattering reluctance, pressing one last kiss to his mouth. 

“Later,” Tony promised, and felt Steve shudder before his hands fell away.

Steve stepped back just in time for Tony to be almost tackled again, this time by Natasha. Only instead of being followed with a kiss Tony got a tirade. “I cannot _believe_ you were just going to let yourself die without telling me and Pepper,” she hissed, jabbing a finger in his chest. “All that nonsense about wanting us to take over Iron Cardinal business so we could have more security and power, that was such _shit._ ”

Tony held his hands up and retreated in the face of Natasha’s righteous fury. “If I had said anything, you both would have rushed down here,” he protested. “And that would have put you in Stane’s path. I wasn’t going to risk you.”

“Horse. Shit,” Natasha said with emphasis, following him as he retreated. “Don’t you dare say it was for our own good.”

“I’m sorry!” He said. She had finally cornered him against the fireplace. “But it was also more important that you take care of the forgeries and everything than to come down and hover uselessly. I wouldn’t have handled it that way if I thought I had any other choice.”

“Right,” James said, raising an eyebrow. Of course, they healed him with the grail as well; Tony barely recognized him without the bruising and swelling and the constant pain that had been drawing brackets around his mouth since they’d rescued him. “The way you told me and Steve what was going on because we were here and already in Stane’s path?”

Tony gaped, and saw that even Steve was giving him an unimpressed look. “But – but I-”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Natasha said, crossing her arms. “You’re going to say, ‘But I didn’t want anyone to worry.’ Right?” When Tony nodded sheepishly she scoffed. “The truth is, you want to be the first to help people but you are incapable of asking for help. You gotta be the hero, right? The invincible Iron Cardinal? Pure pridefulness. And because of that, we almost lost you.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony said again after a long moment, and this time guilt was a rock in his stomach. “You’re right. I promise I’ll do better.”

“Hmph.” Natasha still sounded disgruntled but looked more unhappy and worried than anything else, and Tony felt terrible about how scared she must have been. He put an arm on her elbow to tug her closer and even though she gave him another pointed look, she let him pull her into a hug. “That’s fifteen Hail Marys and an entire night in the chapel praying for wisdom,” she said, voice muffled as she pressed her face into his shoulder.

“I’m sure now that Tony is feeling better, Steve will make sure he’s on his knees praying for something all night,” James said, and Tony could feel Natasha’s shoulders shaking with laughter as Steve turned bright red but didn’t deny it.

“As nice as that sounds, I need breakfast,” Tony said, giving Natasha one last squeeze before letting her go. “Then I want to see this grail, and we can decide what to do with it.”

"More than that, though, we need to figure out what to do with Stane," Steve pointed out. "He will be extremely suspicious if you turn up completely healthy, and having tried to kill you once, he will almost certainly do it again."

"Oh, we have plans for Stane," Natasha said, voice hard. "He won't get away with this. We're just trying to track down his associates first."

"I guess I'll have to lay low for a little while," Tony said ruefully. He looked down at his hands, opening and closing them. "I mean, I feel even better than when I got sick. I'll close up the house here and go back to Paris. It will be easier to hide there than here, and we will just tell everyone to say I'm still sick."

"I'll send for Thomas," Natasha said. "I assume all three of you are going?" Steve met Tony's eyes and smiled, then they both nodded. James just shrugged. "I'll take care of it." She turned to leave and paused, then took a step back and grabbed James's arm, eyeing Steve and Tony. "You're going to probably want to come with me."

* * *

Almost a fortnight later, Tony was humming happily in his study at Notre Dame when Steve came in holding a message, frowning down at the paper in his hands. “Tony,” he started, and Tony looked up at him and smiled. Steve was still dusty from the road, wearing his armor and a surplice with Tony’s crest on it. Sunlight shone on his golden hair and beard, glinting off his mail, and he was so handsome that Tony’s heart hurt.

“You’re back! I take it you and James are finished hiding the true relics?” After examining the relics, they had all decided that the world wasn’t ready for objects of such power; the Templars had been right to keep them locked away from the hands of the greedy and power-hungry. But clearly having them in one place was too much of a temptation; even though the King and the Church were now squabbling over which relics were authentic and which were forgeries, the risk that someone would find about the _real_ relics was too great. So Natasha, Steve, James, and Hassam agreed to leave Paris and spread them far and wide: one was on its way back to the Holy Land, one was buried in an anonymous orchard in Moorish Spain, one hidden in a fortress off the coast of Scotland and one buried deep in the foundations of Notre Dame herself.

Steve nodded. “Just got in, and Peter handed me this,” Steve said, returning Tony’s smile. “You got a message from your network.” Steve held up the piece of paper. “Apparently the Vicomte de Chatellerault is dead.”

Tony paused and made a thoughtful noise. “Tragic,” he said mildly, shuffling a pile of papers into a neat stack.

“What did you do?”

“Does the message say anything else? Was he alone when he died?” Tony asked instead of answering.

“Now how did you know that?” Steve sat down in the chair in front of the desk and read the message out loud. “’V de C’ – I’m going to guess that’s short for the Vicomte – ‘found dead in the middle of an apparent ritual with eight other members of the nobility. Observers think it was a suicide pact, probably Satanic judging from the symbols arrayed around them.’ I’m going to guess one of those symbols might have been for a many-headed snake.” Steve folded the paper again and passed it over the desk to Tony. “So I repeat, what did you do?”

“I just gave Stane a taste of his own medicine, so to speak,” Tony said with a shrug. “I figured if Hassam was right and Hydra was after the relics for their powers, the first thing they would want to do would be to drink from the Holy Grail. So I poisoned it.” At Steve’s look of disbelief, Tony added defensively, “If they had just stored it somewhere and not tried to use it, they’d be fine. It’s on them, really. I just gave them the rope and let them hang themselves.”

Steve just snorted and leaned over the desk to give Tony a thorough kiss. “You scare me sometimes,” he said with a smile.

“In a good way?”

“In a very good way.” Steve kissed him again, tilting his head to slant his mouth across Tony's, tongue darting out to run along his bottom lip. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Tony said. Playing least in sight for the past two weeks had been impossibly dull, he was very ready to make a miraculous recovery from his extended illness. 

“Did you get your estate dealt with?” Steve asked. He was watching Tony over steepled hands, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his lips, gaze unreadable.

Tony narrowed his eyes at Steve, studying his face. The question was sincere enough, but something about Steve’s tone made it seem like Tony’s inheritance was not what he was actually thinking about. “Of a sort. It will be held up in court for years while they search for another male in my family line, which buys me some time since they’re going to have to go to Italy to see if they can find someone on my mother’s side.”

"Are you busy right now?"

"No," Tony said, smiling slowly. He was starting to get a feeling about Steve's intentions.

“Good.” Steve must have decided something, because he stood suddenly and went to the door, latching it. When he turned, the heat in his gaze took Tony’s breath away. "Like I said, I missed you."

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this story reminded me anew why writing historical AUs are so much work - I had to google _everything_. When were chairs invented? When was Notre Dame built? How far can a horse travel in a day? What were the latest innovations in the Middle Ages? What exactly were the borders of France in 1300? What did people eat and drink? The reason why I added the extra scene about the fork was because I was entirely too entertained by the fact that when forks were introduced to Europe, it took decades for them to be adopted because they were seen as "effeminate" and "unmanly," proving that the more things change, the more they stay the same. 
> 
> Also, Tony's plan was 100% based on nonsense stories like the Da Vinci Code and National Treasure. Every time I watch stuff like that I can't help but think about the person who had to think up all these clues in the first place.


End file.
